


Lands of Plenty, Lands of Loss

by wordswithout



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enterprise to Voyager adventures, Friends to Lovers, Geordi is in denial and Hugh is just confused, M/M, Slow Burn, Time Travel, the non-H/G ships are included but not the focal point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 89,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25947922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswithout/pseuds/wordswithout
Summary: Hugh was a mindless Borg drone once, before the Enterprise found him. Now he's chosen to stay on board, and Geordi is willing to take on all of Starfleet to protect him (just don't ask him why). But it isn't only the admirals who are displeased. Hugh's choice will take him and Geordi far from the Enterprise, deep into the unexplored galaxy where new friends and old enemies are waiting and the survival of every single member of the Federation is at stake. If Hugh can't defend his fledgling individuality, he'll lose it - and destroy his dearest friend in the process.
Relationships: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway, Hugh | Third of Five & Geordi La Forge, Hugh | Third of Five/Geordi La Forge, Tom Paris/B'Elanna Torres
Comments: 75
Kudos: 52





	1. ---

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Starting another patented wordswithout epic was a mistake! But Star Trek has kept me sane this pandemic so what are you gonna do. I 1) write l o n g 2) write s l o w 3) may or may not up the rating for sexual content, dunno yet 4) consider fanfic-updates the absolute last priority after every other thing in my life, but I also hate to leave things unfinished (it took me approx. 8 years to finish my last multi-chap but you can't say I didn't finish it!). In my Star Trek sometimes the characters say fuck.
> 
> This is a post-"I, Borg" AU. What would happen if Hugh didn't leave the Enterprise at the end of the episode? I mean besides Geordi's frantic, haphazard wooing. The frantic wooing is a given. I have not given one ounce of thought into how this affects other episodes and nor should you - there may be timeline-breaking references in here but who can keep track of Trek timelines, anyway. I reserve the right to make up the WORST technobabble you've ever seen. If and when other side-ships show up (J/C and P/T are the likely candidates) I'll tag for 'em.
> 
> If you learned the true meaning of love in 1992 through the line "like Geordi...and Hugh," and have been haunted ever since, or if That One Episode of ST:Picard left you bleeding internally, this fic is for you. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue: She is with you.

_In the far distance, the Earth. She has never been there. She knows it well._

_A point of order: Call her_ she _if you’d like, for convenience's sake, but it would be as accurate to use_ he, they, it. We. We _is perhaps the most appropriate, for she is many, and soon enough she will be you. We, in singular. Or she, in totality._

_She stays in the power core of her ship, which is also a part of her. There are few displays, no controls: she has no need of such things. Her thought is the thought of the ship, of all the ships, and of all the beings on the ships. Many billions of beings, and all are one, and all are her. She knows them all so intimately. She knows them as you will know them, as she will know you. She is unity. A perfect whole._

_She thinks of the Earth, many thousands of light-years away, and an image of the planet appears on the screen nearest her. She looks at it from above, where she hangs, a head and dipping spine, without the rest of her physical form. There is little need for a body just now. Without her it is only inert matter._

_The Earth vexes her. It sits smug in its corner of the galaxy, surrounded by others just as smug, enemy and friend alike. The_ Federation _. It thinks itself mighty and wise, but it is a pale imitation of what she could offer them – and of what they could offer her. Yet they waste their time on minor quibbles, territorial disputes and cultural delegations and peace and law. She could bring them perfection. They could bring it to each other._

_She is looking at you, in her way. She is looking at all your kind._

_Twice she has tried a direct assault on the Earth yet both times she has failed. Failure is not a familiar concept. It is not sufficient. Now she must consider other methods._

_There have been three mistakes in her attempts to assimilate the Federation. The solution, she thinks, is in those mistakes. She considers them now, and while she considers them she is also launching a vessel into the region of an as-yet-uncontacted species, for investigation and absorption. She is reassigning various beings to various ships. She is coming into the Collective, a fresh new mind bleeding terror for only half a microsecond before it adjusts into its perfect new role. She is rerouting power on a healing sphere. She is dying three hundred and twelve small deaths on board a cube that has been caught in a subspace rift and pulled apart._

_She thinks of the mistakes. They are the only of their type. Oh, there have been others lost here and there over the countless millennia – ships cut off from the Collective by technical error, individuals of assimilated species who managed to flee. Occasionally small groups of drones will, by accident or design, form small Collectives of their own. But she is not concerned with individuals, who will always die. The drones in small Collectives have truly not separated at all – are not individuals when they are still connected, to be reconnected by the whole in time. And she collects her lost selves, or destroys them, or takes the crucial parts and leaves the rest for the flotsam of space. She herself has been destroyed many times, though to say this is not to speak with clarity for she is not a person. She is a casing for a conception of order that transcends her. She has always been, since the creation of her kind, and she will always be until the goal of eternal perfection is reached, and lost drones here or there make no difference, and stragglers from an assimilated species make no difference._

_These three mistakes, though, are different._

_The trouble with the first, she thinks, is that she gave it a voice too quickly. It was too newly a drone – it used that voice to hold onto itself, in some deep pit where even she could not reach. And it was too easily reminded of its old, inefficient self. The drone Locutus was meant to give insight into its perplexing race, and it did, but ultimately it was too unstable a connection._

_So for the third mistake she chose a different tack. Seven of Nine had been part of the Collective for almost all its life. It had no insights into the Federation except that it came from there, and was thus eagerly reclaimed by other humans: a weakness to be exploited by a drone with no sense of self. Its voice was given to it later, and it was not altogether a failure at first. It may yet prove itself a success. But it is so hard to predict the actions of humans. The human captain Janeway took advantage of that voice, rebuilt that sense of self. The human Seven proved as stubborn as the captain. Still she – the she that is also he and they and we and it – watches them, in case there should be a chance to reclaim what is hers. She has come close, before. She will come closer still._

_But the second mistake...the second mistake was unexpected._

_She did not choose to give the drone Third of Five a voice, nor was it forcibly separated from the Collective by friends or idealistic starship captains. It was merely another drone, momentarily lost to her by the crash of its scouting vessel. And as with all the other drones lost in this way she sent her selves to reclaim it, and found nothing there but blood and a few loose implants, and thought it destroyed, for who would ever hide the body of a single drone? Single drones are worthless. It is only as a whole that they matter._

_By the time she realized her mistake the drone was already on the Enterprise – vessel of the human who was once Locutus. They were already dampening its signals, hiding it from her. Its mind was no longer hers. Oh, but she is not so easily discarded, and she knows. Knows the drone has begun to think of itself as he. To speak with its own voice instead of hers. This drone is not human, does not even know what it began life as. But unlike Locutus and Seven of Nine it chose on its own to become an individual. It has been with the humans for several months._

_But it is not so well-protected as it thinks. An aberration to be destroyed, or to make use of? What would it do were she to use it to assimilate not only the Enterprise but the entire Federation? What would it think in that half a microsecond before it was consumed?_

_(And Locutus was a year ago and Seven not for several years still, but just as only the whole of the Collective matters so too with time itself. She is not restricted to such linear terms.)_

_This drone that has chosen, though drones never, ever choose...she watches it as she watches the others. As she watches the image of the Earth upon her viewscreen. As she watches you._

_She is not greedy. She is patient. She will soon be with the rogue drone, and Seven of Nine, and all the others, and you and yours._

_She is the Borg. Resistance is futile._


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Geordi thought of the lieutenant screaming, out in the hall. 'How dare you act like that thing has a name?' "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I love ST-style found families and ensemble casts of lovable weirdos? Yeah. Do I find ST-style found families and ensemble casts of lovable weirdos impossible to write distinctly? Yeah. SO many unique voices............
> 
> Anyway do not get used to this fast update time, it is a fluke and a lie.

_Chapter One_

_(in which Data accidentally curses out Riker in Romulan and Geordi accidentally asks Hugh out on a date)_

_Chief engineer’s log, stardate_ _42680.3_

 _Well, finally got that_ _plasma_ _-converter issue figured out. Turns out there was a way to_ _seal_ _the energy flow around the break. Gotta admit, I’m not sure I would’ve thought_ _of_ _it if – well, nah, I would have thought_ _of_ _it, but it would have taken me longer. Having him around is really...I mean, it’s kind of impressive how well he knows some of the systems on this ship. A_ _nd_ _kind of unsettling when you realize_ how _he knows._

 _But, hey, the converters are working again. Data’s going to build in some redundancies so we don’t get caught by surprise again._ _One less thing to worry about,_ _now_ _that’s speaking my language._

_Oh, uh, speaking of Data and language…_

Geordi frowned at the multicolored cacophony that was the open back of Data’s head. The android sat patiently, holding absolutely still lest one of the several wires connecting him to several computer terminals pull loose. Geordi ran a tricorder over the exposed configurations, willing a pattern to emerge, but the lights stayed stubbornly stable under his hand.

“I just don’t get it, Data,” he said. “According to this all your systems are fine. Not just the language processes – everything. Perfect health, top to bottom. Except...”

“Dhak'tah van de geheel e rotunda lahje oumriel _,”_ Data said. There was a pause.

Geordi sighed. “Exactly.”

He glanced at the display behind him, reached out to tap in a new set of commands and then turned back to Data. “OK,” he said, “let’s try this again. Starting scan...”

But the new scan was no more helpful than the last. He was still glaring at his tricorder when Commander Riker strode into engineering and came up behind him.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Tik-tik archipelago shalom mul ahna,” Data explained.

Riker said, “I’ll take that as a no.”

Geordi gestured at the nearest screen, which was a carpet of scrawling numbers. “What I can tell you is the problem isn’t that Data can’t speak a language but that he can’t differentiate between languages. You understand us just fine, right?” Data started to nod, then stopped as a wire pulled taut. “And as far as he’s concerned he’s speaking back to us as coherent as ever.”

The commander scratched his chin. “Can the universal translator make any sense of it? Maybe we can decode him.”

“Already tried. The problem is he’s not speaking the same words _for_ the same words – here, Data, say the word _apple_ three times.”

“Kroykah, furanda, qezhtihn.”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks? I think you just insulted us in Romulan.”

Data shook his head, eyes wide. Geordi patted his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take everything you say as a compliment until further notice.”

Riker leaned over the computer, started scrolling through the reams of data Geordi had spent the last three hours collecting. “So you’re saying this started when Data ran a basic systems check?”

“Far as I can tell,” Geordi said. “That check must’ve scrambled something somewhere – I just can’t figure out how or where.”

Data was disconnecting himself from all the wires. With the last one out he stood up and began tapping on another computer screen. _Self-diagnoses should not have the ability to corrupt intact processes. A full systems reboot may be required,_ he wrote.

“That’s interesting,” Riker said. “You can still write normally?”

_Yes. The problem appears to be in my vocal processes._

_“_ Processes I’ve gone over with every instrument in engineering,” Geordi growled. “I even checked for radiation damage!”

Fingers flying, Data wrote, _I did suggest that would not be a productive use of your time, Geordi. Radiation would not affect my positronic net in that way._

“Yeah, well, sometimes you have to throw electrodes at a wall to see if anything sticks.”

 _But there were no electrodes._ Data tilted his head. _Oh, I see. A colorful metaphor used to denote—”_

“Data,” Riker broke in, “if you’re feeling alright otherwise I’d like to have you back on the bridge.”

_Yes, sir. I will set the computer to read my written text out loud, to prevent confusion._

_“_ Good call. Geordi, you’ve got enough in the scans to work with for now?”

“At this point I think I have enough information to build a second Data. I’ll tell you if I find anything.”

Riker nodded. “I’ll let the captain know. Oh, Geordi, by the way...” He raised his eyebrows. “Mind if we talk in private a second.”

Geordi blinked. “Sure thing.” He turned to Data, who was snapping shut the back of his head. “Stop by after your shift, OK? I want to make sure none of your other processes are starting to degrade.”

“Mwanamke rodeo,” Data agreed.

Geordi followed Riker across the wide room of engineering, past the computers, the bustle of people in yellow uniforms and utility jumpsuits, and in the back, behind the barriers and sensor systems, the blue glow and steady low hum of the warp core. Riker led them into a little alcove near an entrance for the Jefferies tubes, and when they were alone the commander leaned his weight against an unused terminal and said with his eyebrows raised, “So how’s he doing?”

The _he_ in question was not Data, Geordi knew. The commander was a good guy, and the Enterprise crew, or at least the senior staff, had adjusted remarkably quickly to their latest guest, but adjusting wasn’t exactly the same as accepting – there was still a sense in the air of baited breath, of people waiting for the asylum to prove foolish or even deadly. It couldn’t be so simple, couldn’t go so well – not with _him_ on board. Frankly, it was starting to piss Geordi off.

“He’s doing just fine,” he said. “Knows the ship, knows the people he’s interacting with. I took him down to Ten Forward for Data’s concert the other night and once he stopped trying to integrate the tuba into his systems I think he really enjoyed it.”

“Does it seem like he’s getting used to everything a little too quickly? We’re talking about massive fundamental changes here, a whole new way of _thinking_ , and he’s already interested in brass bands?”

“Hey, he’s a quick learner. That’s no surprise. Adaptation is in his DNA, remember?” Geordi grinned. “You should give him trombone lessons. Actually, Commander, I was thinking about bringing him down to engineering more often. Maybe even assigning him some shifts.”

Riker frowned. “You want to assign a – you want to assign him to engineering?”

“Sure. He really was a huge help with those plasma converters, he knows the systems, and honestly I think it’d be good for him to have, I don’t know, something to _do_. Some structure. He’s not used to going without a function for so long.”

“Spoken like a true Borg.”

“Hey, you said it yourself, it’s a whole new way of thinking. Might be good to meet him in the middle.” Riker still looked unconvinced. Geordi folded his arms, hesitated, then took the plunge: “Look, either he’s an asylum-seeker and a guest on this ship or he’s a prisoner. If he’s our prisoner then we’re a bunch of idiots. And if he’s a guest, with knowledge we could make use of, why _not_ let him help out? He _wants_ to be helpful. I’d assign all his shifts to overlap with mine, he’d never be on his own – and it’d be _good_ for him. For his sense of self. Might keep him from slipping into _we_ so often. And—”

Riker held up a hand with a wince. “Geordi, I hear you, I even agree with you, but it’s not that simple.”

“Seems pretty simple to me.”

“What about the rest of your team? Is it going to seem so simple to them?”

“What? Of course, they’d...” He trailed off. Pictured that bustle behind him, and a new face – _that particular_ new face – dropped into the middle of it. Remembered that swirling sense in the air, that gossip, heard the in-drawn breaths and ugly remarks…

Then he scowled. “Anyone who has a problem with it can be reassigned to dusting the Jefferies tubes.” Now he was whining, a little bit, but what the hell. “People have a problem working with Data, we don’t make that Data’s problem!”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s exactly the same thing.”

“Data is a Starfleet officer, and a friend, and...”

“And not a murderer?”

Riker said, “That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s what everyone else means.”

“I don’t think it’s outrageous that some people might feel a little apprehensive!”

“It sure as hell is outrageous. Spend five seconds in a room with him and tell me you think he’s still Borg. He spent an hour yesterday petting Data’s cat.”

The conversation snagged. Geordi let the silence linger, himself irritated, Riker looking a little shame-faced at least, until it began to tip past awkward into rude. And then, just as Riker opened his mouth, Geordi said: “Admit it. You’re just scared he’s going to kick your ass at poker.”

Riker erupted with laughter. The tension broke.

“You’re inviting him to poker night?” he protested.

“Sure. Bet he’s got a great poker face.”

“No, I bet he doesn’t even know how to lie. But he’ll use that ocular implant of his to tell what cards I’m holding plus what I’m thinking plus what I had for breakfast.”

Geordi shrugged. “So don’t eat breakfast.”

Riker straightened up off the computer terminal with a shake of his head. “You know what your problem is, La Forge? You’re too damn friendly.”

Geordi grinned. “It’s what I,” he started to say, and then from the hallway outside engineering someone screamed.

*

It took less than a minute to reach the hallway, Riker out in front and Geordi a step behind, but a crowd had already formed by the time they got there. Geordi couldn’t see who was screaming from behind the press of people, but he could hear alright, a woman almost incoherent with rage. “How dare you!” she was shrieking. “Where is he! How dare you!”

“Move,” Riker barked, and used both his bulk and his title to muscle through to the center of the crowd. Geordi followed in the bigger man’s footsteps, past pinched, uncertain faces. Never a good sign to see Starfleet officers looking uncertain, he thought.

He nudged a Bolian ensign out of the way and came face to face with the woman screaming, a lieutenant in a blue science uniform. She was thin and short but her anger seemed to lift her above Riker. She turned her head, fixed her eyes on Geordi, and for a second he thought she was yelling at him. Then he realized she wasn’t looking at him but just to his right.

He turned, and caught his breath.

“Hugh,” he said.

The former Borg drone was on the other end of the tight circle formed by the crowd standing just out of his range. He stood stiff and silent as the lieutenant spat, “Monster!” at him, his expression not so much fearful as confused, his one visible eye jerking back and forth from unfriendly face to unfriendly face. Then it landed on Geordi, and instantly the stiffness fell away.

“Geordi!” said Hugh, and walked three steps over to him, moving in that jerky, piecemeal way of his, apparently ignoring the whole dramatic scene. The crowd pulled that much further back. Geordi grit his teeth.

“Uh, hey, Hugh,” he said. “What’s…?”

“How dare you act like that thing has a name!”

“ _Lieutenant.”_ That was Riker, in full form. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

The science officer turned to face him, her blue eyes wide and wet, her face blotched with spots of angry red. She huffed a laugh that dripped outrage and disbelief. “When I came on board I thought it was just a _rumor_. A bad _joke_. But – you really have one here! A Borg drone, on the Starfleet flagship, walking around by itself like it was a – a—” She whirled back, spat in Hugh’s direction. “How many Starfleet ships did you destroy? Huh? How many people? You wouldn’t even know their _names_.”

“Don’t answer her,” Geordi muttered, not that there was much risk. He could feel the bewilderment radiating off Hugh, but the former drone said only, “Hello, Geordi,” as if the woman wasn’t there. “I was coming to find you.”

She blazed, “Don’t _ignore_ me,” but Commander Riker stepped between them and cut her off.

“Hugh’s been granted asylum by Captain Picard,” he said, curt and loud. “He has every right to be in the hall.”

“Asylum!” Another withering laugh. “Why not grant asylum to a Romulan war criminal, or a black hole? What were the conditions for asylum, huh? Why don’t you make it tell me what they did with my brother!”

“If you have a problem with someone on this ship or with the decisions of its captain you take it up the chain of command,” Riker ordered. “You don’t stand here throwing a fit like a child, not while you wear that uniform. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”

Maybe it was the pulling rank that drained the starch from her shoulders. She slumped. “Yes sir,” she said, voice gone dull.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Good. Now get back to your station.” He turned his glare on the rest of the crowd. “You all have places to be?” he said, and it wasn’t much of a question.

Geordi waited until the hallway had cleared – and the crowd had been perfectly silent when it went, which in retrospect was worse than the gossipy undercurrent would have been – to catch Commander Riker’s eye. “What was that about?”

Riker ran a hand over his face. “That was Lieutenant Roslynn Collins. I signed her transfer request two weeks ago, she was scheduled to come on board today. Bad fucking timing is what that was.” He looked at Hugh then, and a certain tenseness came into his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Her brother was stationed on the USS Yamaguchi.”

The name didn’t seem to mean anything to Hugh, but Geordi realized. “Battle of Wolf 359,” he groaned. “The Yamaguchi was destroyed.”

“Exactly. ...Guess we can’t fault her for being a little upset.”

“Well – well, no, wait a minute. One cube destroyed the Yamaguchi, and Hugh wasn’t on it. You can’t blame him for it when he wasn’t even there.”

“Collective mind, remember? I don’t think it makes much difference to Lieutenant Collins.”

“It makes a difference to me. I mean, it’s...Hugh, do you even know what we’re talking about?”

Hugh nodded. Geordi’s stomach sank.

“Four thousand four hundred and fifty-eight individuals were assimilated into the Collective,” Hugh said as if reading off a data padd. “Six thousand five hundred and forty-two were destroyed. Fifteen thousand two hundred and eighty drones were destroyed—”

“Hugh…”

“The minds of those assimilated were linked to the Collective.” He looked back and forth from Geordi to Riker and then began to pace, a tic of his when he was uneasy or overwhelmed. A remnant of his first days on the Enterprise, when he still thought of himself as _we_. “This was...bad? This was...my fault?”

“No,” said Geordi. “It’s the Borg’s fault, but you’re not Borg any more. Remember? You’re Hugh.”

If he was hoping for a revelation or even relief on Hugh’s part, he didn’t get it. The former drone quit pacing, eyes fixed on Geordi – not as though he was uncertain or disconcerted, though Geordi suspected he was both, but as though he was a blank entity, awaiting instruction. Emotions of any kind were still new to Hugh, and moving them from inside to show on his face was new too. So it was _understandable,_ really it was, that he would look so – so – _so mechanical,_ Geordi thought, and grimaced. Not mechanical like Data, who was anything but blank-eyed no matter what he told himself about his supposed lack of emotion, but mechanical like…

Like the Borg.

He looked at Hugh, at the black synthetic bulk of him. Hugh was surprisingly short for a drone – former drone – but built as a weapon, all muscle and wire and casing and the heavy unnatural threat of that prosthetic arm. His skin was a clammy, unhealthy white.

He thought of the lieutenant screaming, out in the hall. _How dare you act like that thing has a name?_

Commander Riker was still looming, and people passing by in the hall were swiping quick glances as they went. Geordi snapped himself out of his brooding. “Look,” he said. “The whole point is that Hugh isn’t Borg now. He’s an individual and it’s not fair to blame him for things he couldn’t help when he wasn’t one.”

“Fine,” Riker said. “But for the time being...”

“Yeah.” Geordi turned back to Hugh. “I’ll be finished here in a little bit. Why don’t you wait for me in...” He trailed off. Hugh waited – and there was something unnatural in his patience, too – but Geordi couldn’t make himself say _the brig_ , Hugh’s supposed quarters until real quarters could be outfitted with the energy converters he needed, and the security the captain said he needed. He knew Hugh hated the brig, it was one of his earliest discoveries about himself: the unfriendly quiet, left there all alone. And he knew Hugh had come to find him for a reason, trodding through an unfamiliar ship in search of his others, the voices he recognized. And he knew there was no good damn reason to restrict him to quarters, to treat him like a Borg threat. He wasn’t Borg! He was Hugh.

“Why don’t you wait for me in sick bay?” he said. “You like Doctor Crusher, right? And I know she’s got a hundred more tests she wants to run on you. I’ll meet you there soon as I can.”

He tried to sound cheerful. The unfairness soured his words.

“Yes, Geordi,” said Hugh, in that echoing, implant-choked voice he was still learning how to use. Individual drones never spoke, Hugh had said, there was no relevance in one voice, but also they all spoke, in unison, all the time. Geordi couldn’t picture it.

“You know how to get there? Actually, why don’t we get you transported over? Save us the repeated trouble,” he muttered to Riker.

And when that was done, and Hugh was gone, Riker blew his lips out in a noisy breath. “I think for now we should go back to a security escort for him,” he said, and lifted a hand to still Geordi’s protest. “For his own good! So he’s not wandering the ship getting jumped left and right. Like it or not, fair or not, people are going to have doubts about him being here, emotions are going to run high, and next time I might not be down the hall to order him out of it.”

“People hassle Data sometimes. We don’t make him walk with a security detail,” Geordi said, aware the argument wouldn’t work any better the second time.

Riker said wryly, “I have never doubted Data’s ability to handle himself. But Hugh? He’s only been himself for, what, a few months? Geordi, giving him some backup is for his benefit as much as anyone else’s.”

“...Fine,” Geordi said, reluctant. There was a headache beginning to splice at the sides of his skull that couldn’t be blamed on his VISOR.

“I’ve got to get back to the bridge.” Riker took a step, then paused. “Still think it’s going to be that simple?” he asked. Geordi didn’t answer.

But when Riker was about to round the corner out of sight, the engineering chief called, “I’m still going to talk to the captain about assigning him shifts!”

*

Sick bay’s main room was empty when he came in, rubbing his head, but he could hear Dr. Crusher in the direction of her office, with that light tone she used when she found something amusing. “...like that,” she was saying. “You’ll save me hours this way.”

“Doctor?” Geordi called.

“Just a minute!” She said something else, in a lower voice he couldn’t make out, then came into the main room. When she saw him there she beamed.

“Geordi! Good, just in time.” She pointed back behind her. “Wait until you see this. I have Hugh mixing chemical compounds for me – nothing very complicated, but getting the mixture levels just right is incredibly labor-intensive, usually takes me days’ worth of effort hunched over a test tube. But that ocular implant of his can make out the individual chemical bonds! He’ll be done in half an hour.” She marveled, “I think his might rival yours for most useful vision, Geordi.”

“Y’know something, if his implant gives him fewer headaches I might have to upgrade.”

“Oh, no, is your VISOR bothering you again? Let me get you something.”

He admitted, “I’m not sure if it’s the VISOR or just the day. Been a long one.”

Doctor Crusher moved over to one of her lab stations and began putting together a hypospray. “I heard about Data,” she called over her shoulder.

“Did you hear about Hugh causing a minor riot outside engineering?”

She wrinkled her nose, sympathetic. “It’ll just take time for everyone to adjust,” she said. “Here, relax your shoulders.”

Geordi heaved a sigh as she pressed the hypospray against the side of his neck. As always there was a stubborn half-second where the headache refused to be dislodged, clinging to his temples like it had claws and teeth and gravitational pull. But the meds did their work as they always did and chased it off – for a while, at least.

“Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Crusher popped the spent cartridge out of the hypospray and tossed it into a waste converter. “Well, if Hugh keeps coming here I’ll be delighted. He’d make an excellent medical technician. Or a nurse!”

“I’m not sure anyone’s ready for an ex-Borg nurse.”

“Why not?” she asked, mischief in her eyes. “I’m sure he’d be very thorough. Do you know, I ran some more blood-work – it’s hard to tell because many of his cybernetic implants seem to have been replaced, like a computer being upgraded, but I don’t think he’s as young as he looks. I’d guess he’s just about your age.”

“What about species?”

She sighed. “All I can tell you is humanoid, definitely not human. His blood samples don’t bring up any matches in our database. But we have no idea where the Borg are actually from – he could be from a far-off culture that was destroyed years ago.”

“No wonder he gets lonely,” Geordi said. “It’s not like with the captain. He doesn’t have a past to get back to. Without the Borg he really would be alone in the universe.” He thought then of Data, felt the same familiar twist in his gut that Data sometimes gave him. Felt that urge to build a home where there was none, the way he might put together a new warp core, get down into the meat of it and with wire and circuits and sweat give his friends a place that felt like family. Technology could do such wonders. Couldn’t it do that?

He rubbed the back of his neck, massaging out the last tendrils of stiffness. “The Borg use the organic body as a conduit for technology. Makes you wonder what the effect of all that tech is on the living tissue. What happens if the implants are removed?”

“I wouldn’t dare try,” Crusher said. “Not until we know more about them. The body grows too dependent on the foreign systems. It’d be like staying in bed a decade and then trying to play Parisses squares on your withered legs. I think—”

A crash cut her off, the sounds of metal upturning and glass shattering. Crusher winced.

“It’s that prosthetic arm,” she said ruefully. “Amazing strength, incredibly complex...does limit his dexterity, though.”

“Hugh’s clumsy,” Geordi said. “Who would’ve thought?”

Those heavy footsteps, that metallic whirring, and then Hugh was there, in the doorway.

He said, “Doctor Beverly, we have damaged the – Geordi! You’re here.”

Just like before, his whole posture seemed to change. He moved quicker, lighter somehow on his feet for all the piston-creak. Geordi had shown him how to shake hands and now they did, Hugh’s visible eye intent on this process of mingling fingers; he was always eager to start the handshake but he sometimes forgot to stop. Geordi eased his hand back before his wrist snapped off.

“We are assisting Doctor Beverly,” Hugh said. “We have broken...I have broken six test tubes.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I break them all the time.”

But he didn’t look at her or even seem to be listening (focus to the point of rudeness was something else they were working on). So Crusher headed to the office herself, catching Geordi’s eye as she went – there was something odd in her smile Geordi couldn’t quite read. Something soft. Something knowing.

“Now you are here, my friend Geordi. I was waiting to hear your voice.”

The amazing thing about Hugh – he could say stuff like that, he said stuff like that _all the time_ , and never realized how it sounded. This was the deadly former drone half the ship was afraid of? _I might be blind, but people around here_ _are_ _deaf,_ Geordi thought.

He said, “Told you I’d come see you. Not too bored, were you?”

“Bored.” Hugh tilted his head. “It is good to have a function again.” A strain of worry crept into his voice. “But we have discovered that we are malfunctioning.” Geordi waited, watched Hugh think back over his last sentence and pick out the mistake. “I am malfunctioning,” he said. “I dropped six test tubes.”

“I told you,” Crusher said, reentering the room with a tray of (unbroken) vials. “Don’t worry about it. It’s already cleaned up.”

“On a Borg ship, damage would be isolated,” Hugh said. “The damaged drone would be salvaged for parts. It is not efficient otherwise.”

Geordi said, “Good thing you’re not on a Borg ship, then, huh?”

“Good thing,” echoed Hugh, uncertain.

“Besides,” Beverly said, “you’re not damaged. It’s not healthy to think of yourself that way.” She pointed another hypospray at Geordi, threateningly. “Geordi’s not damaged just because he waits until the absolute last second to get something done for his headaches.”

“Headaches? Geordi gets headaches?” Hugh peered from her to him. “Why does Geordi get headaches?”

“It’s the VISOR,” he said.

“With an ocular implant you could—” But Hugh didn’t finish the very familiar sentence. Instead he reached up with his organic hand and touched the edges of his glinting, polychromatic prosthetic eye. It looked like it was bolted to the skin beneath. Geordi’s own device turned its rainbow colors into sharp chunks of variegation, while the rest of Hugh was all softer lines even where the implant wires cut into the skin. He wondered what Hugh saw – he wondered how he looked to Hugh.

“You would not...want this device,” the former drone said slowly. “It is...heavy. No. It is...”

He turned in a jerking circle, frustrated by the need for words. No doubt he was thinking his true meaning just as hard as he could, thinking it into the silence where once there would have been a million other minds to scoop it up and make instant sense of it. But now there was nothing there to meet him, to understand. The colors off him spiked, and his chest rose and fell in harsh stabs of breath. “ _Geordi_ ,” he said, biting out the name as if it helped. Geordi hoped to hell somehow it did.

“It’s all right, Hugh,” Dr. Crusher said softly. “It’ll get easier.”

“It’s not easier! It’s not sufficient, this way! There is no function! There are no voices!”

“Hey.” Geordi put both hands on his shoulders. Hugh could have knocked him through the Enterprise’s bulkheads and out into the nearest sun if he’d wanted to, but instead he stilled, tense, trying to make sense of the physical contact Geordi knew he wasn’t used to. A Borg drone might remove another’s implants or hold down a struggling victim – it wouldn’t ever hug for comfort. It wouldn’t know what comfort was.

No, there was nothing young about Hugh. He carried the weight of a million years.

“You hear me?” said Geordi, who knew something about being lonely in a crowd. “You hear my voice right now?”

“ _Yes_ , Geordi. But it...it _goes_. Friends are not there always.”

“I know. But right now, it’s here. Right now I’m here. Don’t worry about what comes next.”

“Why?”

“Because worrying won’t help. It’ll make you feel worse. Friends can’t be together 24-7. Sometimes you do have to be alone.”

“ _Why_?”

“Just because.” He smiled. “But that’s not a bad thing. Might be hard to realize it now, but time to yourself can be a real blessing. It’s not always lonely. Sometimes it’s a relief.”

Hugh said nothing. His breathing slowed.

Beverly was watching them both again.

“Better?” Geordi asked.

Hugh looked at Geordi’s hand on his shoulder. “In the hallway,” he said. “There was yelling like on a Borg ship, when a new species is assimilated. Why?”

“I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t your fault.”

“The yelling was because we are – I am still Borg?”

“ _No_. You’re _not_ Borg, you just...you just look it a little.” He hesitated, remembering Riker’s edict. “Maybe it’d be good to go back to having security with you again, huh? For a little while? Keep you from being too lonely...”

Hugh didn’t bother to react, the question of security not one he apparently had any thoughts on. _And you’re kidding yourself if you think any security team you assign to him will be_ friendly _,_ Geordi thought, hating himself for the whole damn thing. This was the best they could do for Hugh? Hugh, who had trusted them, who had chosen them? Hugh, who they’d nearly killed?

Then Dr. Crusher said, “Geordi, you and Hugh have both done enough work for one day. I hear there’s another concert tonight in Ten Forward...”

“What do you say, Hugh? You liked the music last time, right?”

“Music!” said Hugh, then paused. “Will – will you go also, Geordi?”

“It’s a date,” said Geordi without thinking. The words flew right over Hugh’s head, widened Beverly’s eyes and careened back to crash into Geordi’s skull with the force of a phaser set to kill.

*

Outside the ship was nothing. A star-flecked void. The perfect frozen unconcern of the universe, which filled itself with uncountable life and thought nothing of any of it.

Inside, Data had just called Worf a Breen blubber whale.

From the head of the table in the observation lounge, Captain Picard said dryly, “I see you have not yet solved Data’s unexpected language barrier.”

Geordi shook his head, mostly to hide his grin lest Worf see it from his seat across the table. “Not yet,” he said. “There are a few possibilities I’m still chasing down.”

“We’re due to arrive in the T'lli Beta sector in 72 hours,” the captain said. “Data’s technical prowess will be invaluable to the repair efforts there, and I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to meet the T’lli Betan representative with an android who can’t make himself understood. How quickly can you chase down those possibilities?”

“Well—”

“Kumquat kunatsila teer r’tch ‘za, vox hwajat ajhakjah,” Data cut in. “nIb'poH shukrimu malingering yavar ha iktasho xzyk`pd. Mais—”

Captain Picard said, “Yes, Data, I take your point.”

“I do not,” muttered Worf, who was still sulking about the whale.

Geordi saw the opening and jumped for it. “You know,” he began, “between keeping the warp core running and finishing the repairs on the plasma converters, I barely have time to say hi to Data. Plus I still have three people out with Morborkian Flu...”

Riker was watching him, a hand over his mouth, eyebrows raised. No one else there – Worf, Data, Deanna Troi, the captain – seemed to have caught on.

“I’m just saying, it'd be nice to have an extra pair of hands and eyes down there. I could spend years, _decades_ going through Data’s systems and I still might miss something. If I could double up my efforts with someone who’s good at parsing complex tech...”

“Agreed,” the captain said, and leaned back in his chair. “Did you have someone in mind?”

Now Riker had both hands over his mouth. Geordi said cheerfully, “It so happens I know a guy. Whip-smart, picks up new technology like it’s nothing, loves to be useful. He’s new on board and he’s got a lot of time on his hands for extra shifts in engineering. Plus he’s got a certain, uh, a certain unique ocular viewpoint...”

Captain Picard, to his credit, recovered quickly. He straightened up, then leaned over the table and pinned Geordi with that stare of his that could melt a ship’s hull. “You’re talking about Hugh,” he said.

“Absolutely not!” Worf erupted. “That would be an incredible security risk. He is a drone!”

“No, he’s a _former_ drone, and he’d be useful down there, Captain, I’m telling you—”

“A former drone given access to any part of the ship’s systems unsupervised cannot be—”

“It wouldn’t be unsupervised, I’d be with him! Hell, _Data’d_ be with him! He’s a good guy and he wants to help and frankly he’s got tech built in that I could use!”

“The Borg have never assimilated an android like Commander Data. It’d be a disaster if they did.”

“They never have and they never will because there’s only one Data and _Hugh’s not Borg_.”

Captain Picard said quietly, “Gentlemen.” Geordi and Worf both subsided.

Data,” Counselor Troi said after a moment, “how would you feel about having Hugh there? It is really a very intimate procedure.”

“Bupkis,” said Data, and nodded.

“Data knows Hugh’s no threat,” said Geordi, who was pretty sure that was true. “Captain, I’ve been spending a lot of time with him. I’ve been alone with him plenty. Any one of those times he could have crushed my skull like a lump of dirt and he hasn’t. And he _won’t_. You’ve talked to him, you know that.”

“I know that he is an individual separate from the Collective,” the captain noted. “I cannot say for certain he isn’t a threat. And neither can you.”

Geordi said, “I can, sir.” He glanced at Riker again and suspected the man was muffling his mouth to hide a smile.

The captain was still laser-focused on him. Geordi said, “Sir, I need help to fix Data. I think Hugh can help. And I think this can help _him_.”

After a moment, Captain Picard said, “I suppose I am inclined to agree.”

“Sir!” Worf protested, but the captain shook his head.

“Your concerns are noted, Lieutenant. And Hugh is not to be given access to any of this ship’s wider systems, with or without supervision. Is that understood?”

“But I could...”

“Is that understood, Commander La Forge?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But in this specific instance, working with Geordi to help repair Data...I do think that could be very helpful.”

Troi said, “The Borg hurt. But this is a chance to teach Hugh how to heal.”

“Quite right. Lieutenant Worf, you may station a security detail outside engineering while they work. And I don’t want Hugh alone in there for a moment, Geordi. Data, of course if you develop any concerns you only have to say the word and we’ll curtail this collaboration.”

“Maybe write the word,” Commander Riker suggested.

“I want a report on your progress by oh eight hundred,” the captain said. “I have no intention of delaying our rendezvous with the T’lli Beta.” At everyone’s murmured agreement he added, “Dismissed.”

Amid the clatter of people pushing back chairs Geordi rose to his feet, distracted. He caught Worf’s eye and nodded – the tactical chief mollified by the promise of security teams – but his thoughts were on the half-victory he’d pulled from Captain Picard. If it could even be called a half-victory. If the captain, of all people...the captain, who knew better than anyone…

“Commander,” the captain called just as Geordi reached the door. “A word, please.”

OK, so maybe it was less than a half-victory.

When the room was otherwise empty the captain relaxed that much more. “Commander Riker told me about the incident in the hallway earlier,” he commented. “Geordi, your ability to adapt to new situations, to new _people_ , is admirable. But not everyone on board has that ability.”

Geordi drummed his fingers on the conference table. Frowned. “I just don’t think we should be treating him like he’s a danger. We gave him a choice and he made it in good faith.”

Captain Picard moved toward the windows. He stared out at the cosmos; Geordi wondered what it was he was really seeing. “Even if I wanted to allow Hugh to work freely in engineering, it wouldn’t be my call to make,” he said.

“Sir?”

“I’ve kept Starfleet High Command abreast of all of this. They’re very...concerned, with the situation. We know so little about the Borg, and now we’re claiming to have rescued someone from the Collective? Introduced a whole new personhood? In someone with no memory of any other existence beyond that of mindless captivity. Starfleet wants assurances that this is going to be handled with care.”

“I guess I’m just having trouble thinking of Hugh as some kind of – of mission.”

“It is absolutely a mission,” the captain said. “It’s also a chance to give someone his life back, a chance we must not squander. But to Starfleet, it is an assignment of utmost importance. I wanted to tell you, Geordi, that High Command is sending a team here to meet with Hugh, and decide what comes next.”

“What? They’re going to meet with him on the Enterprise? But – but what _does_ come next? We granted him asylum, doesn’t he get to decide, or...” Geordi said, “I figured he’d stay here, with us. Could the admirals make him leave?”

“They could. If they thought that was in the best interests of the Federation.”

“But he’s not part of the Federation! Or, well, technically I guess – but he’s _not_ in Starfleet. I don’t see why the admirals should get any say in where he goes.”

“Geordi, you and I see Hugh as a person.” The captain turned from the window. His expression when it met Geordi’s was painfully grave. “Starfleet may see him as an enemy.”

“An _enemy_? Captain, if you’re saying they could chuck him in some penal colony when we _told_ him if he stayed here he’d be safe—”

“I don’t want that to be their decision any more than you do, but it will very shortly be out of my control,” Captain Picard interrupted. “Which is why it’s _crucial_ we make no drastic moves, no errors in judgment, before they meet with him.”

“When are they coming?”

“Soon. As soon as we’re done with the T’lli Beta repairs.”

Geordi’s mouth dropped open. “As soon as – but, Captain, that’s not enough time! I mean, Hugh just got here, he’s still learning how to – how to act and _be_ and – if the admirals hear him talking about himself as _we_ and asking people if they’d like to be assimilated—”

“Commander.” The captain raised his voice, then softened. “Geordi. I appreciate your convictions. Hugh is very fortunate to have such a dedicated voice in his corner. But in this matter, above all other matters, Starfleet will not be put off. And I’m afraid we will have an additional challenge. One of the admirals coming to meet with him is Admiral Nechayev. I’ve heard that she’s expressed...doubts, about our failing to utilize the computer virus against the Borg.”

“It wouldn’t have been right to. Hugh’s a sentient being.”

“I agree. The trick will be ensuring that Admiral Nechayev agrees.”

“Then...then, Captain, I’d like to request permission to join Hugh when he has to meet her.”

Captain Picard startled. “Geordi,” he said, “this isn’t a trial, there’s no need for official defense counsel—”

“I understand that, sir, and I wouldn’t offer to be his defense counsel if it was. But it’s still all new to him. I guess I just hate the thought of him having to run that gauntlet alone.”

Geordi kept his eyes fixed on Picard’s. For the longest moment of his life, no one moved.

Then the captain smiled.

“Permission granted,” he said. “Let the admirals see that Hugh has so quickly grasped _friendship_ , and I suspect we will have made our point.”

“Yes sir,” said Geordi, and started to breathe again.

Captain Picard gestured toward the door, and followed Geordi out of the room. As they stepped onto the bridge, Worf said from his station, “Captain, we just picked up an unusual reading.”

“Unusual how?”

“It was only there for .6 seconds, sir, before vanishing. Some sort of manufactured energy signature our scanners could not explain.”

“What kind of energy signature? Tractor beam? A hail?”

“Version si tt-tt-bo Ohniaka—”

Worf looked pained. “I believe the commander is trying to say that the signature had some similarities with that of a tractor beam, but also with that of a Federation transporter.”

“Those are two very different patterns, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir, and also…” Worf frowned. “There were also similarities to readings of the kind often seen around a vortex, such as a wormhole.”

“But you just said it was manufactured.”

“According to these readings. It is a very...strange...combination. But it came and went so quickly that our findings are inconclusive.”

From his bridge chair Riker mused, “No other ships in the area. Nothing I can think of that would echo a tractor beam, transporter _and_ natural phenomena. Could just be a bit of space dust confusing our sensors.”

“Or it could be our sensors doing the confusing,” Geordi said. “We’ve gotten incoherent readings before, usually means some array is out of alignment.”

The captain said, “Run a diagnostic, then. Go with him, Data. Let’s make sure our computers haven’t picked up your language bug.”

“Understood,” Geordi said, and headed off after a quite perplexed-looking Data to the turbolift.

Captain Picard waited until they were just inside, the doors about to slide shut, and then he called, “Oh, one more thing, Geordi...”

Geordi put out an arm to catch the lift doors. “Yes, sir?”

The captain raised an eyebrow. The temperature of the bridge dipped a single degree down.

“ _Ha_ _s_ Hugh been asking people if they’d like to be assimilated?”

He said, “He’s very polite about it, sir.” Then he grinned and stepped back, letting the doors close.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " 'Hold on.' Riker leaned over the table toward him. 'You’re telling me Borg never sit?' ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some (very quick) eye gouging at the end.

_Chapter Two_

_(in which_ _Hugh_ _has a night out with friends_ _)_

Borg did not dream. At least, they did not dream so they remembered.

Hugh dreamed all the time now.

Strips of color. Faces, all the same. A woman, half a woman, _familiar_ woman, leaning towards him in a flare of green light. “Third of Five,” she called, so he turned away. Geordi – he dreamed of Geordi very often. So often and so clearly that the first time he saw his friend he cried out with joy and tried to reach him and Geordi said, “We are Borg,” with starbursts of implants where the VISOR should have been, and that was very wrong, and Hugh woke up.

He pulled himself lose from the energy adapter. It was not as efficient as a proper Borg alcove and he had to spent more time hooked onto it as a result, and just then that felt wrong. Its location in the brig, silent lonely empty brig, felt wrong. _Everything_ felt wrong. Later he saw the counselor Troi and she said it sounded like he had woken up _in a huff_ , and _on the wrong side of the bed_. Then she laughed. “Data’s been working on his idioms, maybe he can teach you some.”

There was very much to learn about being Hugh. Idioms. Dreams.

He went to Ten Forward with Geordi, to hear the music. They sat with the commander Riker and the counselor Troi and the android Data was up on the stage. Data was still not able to speak correctly but even so he was much easier for Hugh to understand than any of the organic individuals on the ship. Many of the things that puzzled Hugh puzzled him as well.

But some things were different. For Data spoke – when he could speak – of music as a thing of science or engineering, a skill set to follow that would produce the most correct sounds. This quest for perfection any Borg would understand, if not the act itself (perfect music? why any music? why any creation at all?). But that was not what Hugh felt, hearing the instruments. It was not scientific. He felt...vibrations deep in his chest...a swelling, almost a pain…

“He’s good, huh?” said the commander Riker. And this was so paltry a description of what the music was that Hugh felt anger.

Anger was something else for him to learn. When he was _we_ he never felt anything at all.

“What is dreaming?” he asked his friend Geordi. Geordi explained about biochemical synapses, energy signals in the brain, but after a moment he saw this was not what Hugh meant and stopped. Hugh tried to explain. “I dreamed and I saw you. But then you were gone. Why did I see you wrongly?”

“You, uh, you dreamed of me?” said Geordi, and looked down at the red-brown liquid in his glass, which now matched the tips of his ears. Troi said nothing. Riker coughed.

The El-Aurian Guinan swept by their table. Species 293. But that was not the right way to think anymore. The commander Riker called her over and she came, in a green tunic and giant green hat.

Hugh had asked her what her designation was, if no longer Species 293. She told him, “My people are listeners. So here I tend bar and listen.” He did not know then what it meant to tend bar. But he had watched her since and saw she brought many brightly colored drinks to people at the tables, and talked with them, and smiled.

She asked them now what she could get them. The commander Riker asked for another synthale, and the counselor Troi asked for a chocolate sundae, and Geordi said he was good, which was an imprecise, confusing way of saying he did not want another beverage. Then Guinan looked at Hugh and asked what he would like.

He glanced at his friend Geordi, uncertain. “I do not require nutritional material,” he said.

Guinan said, “I didn’t ask what you required. I asked what you would like.”

“What I would like.”

“Remember, Hugh?” Geordi said, and nudged his organic arm. “Choices. Now that you’re here you get to choose.”

Hugh thought. Then he said, carefully, “I’m good,” and looked again at Geordi, who chuckled.

“Probably better that way,” said Geordi. “Who knows if it’s even safe for you to ingest food with all those implants?”

“Borg can adapt to almost any input,” he said.

“Key word _almost_. And you’re not Borg.”

Guinan said, “Well, when you figure it out, you come see me for a Samarian Sunset.” She looked at Hugh the way she often looked at him, as though she was confused by some error he had made. It was difficult on the Enterprise to know when one was making an error. It was difficult to know what one should _choose_.

For example: the choosing of tables. Ten Forward was a big, open room, with many little tables and couches along the walls. It was crowded with others come for the music, but most people sat up by the staging area. Hugh’s friend Geordi, however, had chosen a table at the back and in the corner by the bar. “Smart move,” the commander Riker had observed when he and the counselor Troi arrived. “Guinan’s got that elephant gun of hers behind the bar in case we need backup.”

“El-e-phant-gun?” Hugh had looked at Geordi but it was Troi who rolled her eyes.

“Ignore him,” she said.

And they sat at the table in the back even though it was harder to see the musicians past the bar at this angle. This did not at first seem to be a concern – music, Hugh had learned, was for hearing. But then he watched Riker and Troi crane their necks, trying to see Data as he pulled the first notes from his violin.

“Should we move closer?” Hugh asked Geordi. “This is not an efficient location.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” said Troi quickly, and then she and Riker exchanged glances. Geordi said nothing, only frowned. They did not move closer.

The concert was nearing its end, now, and as the bartender Guinan returned with the commander Riker’s synthale and the counselor Troi’s chocolate, others went past them to exit the room. Hugh’s hearing was very good. Most of them discussed the music at first, but many fell silent as they glimpsed him at his table. Some looked away. Some kept talking, lowering or lifting their voices. Many voices. Hugh enjoyed the sound so much – first music, then voices, and never, _ever_ alone – that he did not bother listening to what the voices said. Borg rarely listened to individual voices. They were irrelevant. It was their altogether cacophony that Hugh heard.

But his friend Geordi, who was not Borg, was listening, as were the others. They all went quiet with the listening.

“You know,” said Geordi after a moment. “There are a lot of busy-bodies on this ship.”

“People are curious,” Troi said softly. “To see a – a former drone, listening to music...”

“No, people are rude,” Geordi said. He said it much louder. Loud enough that the room’s other voices hushed.

Hugh didn’t mind. His friend Geordi’s was only one voice but it was the best one. He tilted his head at the counselor Troi’s melting chocolate (was the chocolate damaged?) and wished the commander Data’s music would come back.

“Take it easy,” Riker said to Geordi. “You had to know bringing him here would cause a stir.”

“I knew he likes listening to music,” Geordi said hotly. Guinan put her tray down on the table with a little click.

“You don’t think this is you trying to push it a little?” Riker said. “Trying to shove him in the face of the crew?”

“Trying to shove – no, I don’t think—”

The bartender Guinan interrupted them both without having to raise her voice. “I think he’s sitting right here. Aren’t you, Hugh?”

He nodded.

“Is that chair comfortable? I noticed you keep leaning forward.”

“Sitting is...new,” he said. “Inefficient.”

“Hold on.” Riker leaned over the table toward him. “You’re telling me Borg never _sit_?”

“Inefficient,” he repeated. The metal casings down his legs did not expect to bend this way. The cords and cables around his hips were stiff and sharp.

“Well,” said Guinan, “you’re welcome to stand.”

“I would like to sit with my friend Geordi,” he said, happily. If this was _happy_. Geordi had tried to explain, and he thought it must be. A swooshing inside, like the feeling of music. A contentment. A need for nothing more.

Borg always looked for more. Without even knowing why that was what they did. Hugh thought now it was a very empty life, with no music and no friends. Thinking that way scared him a little, but even so he did.

Thinking of things that scared him reminded him. “What is dreaming?” he asked his friend Geordi again, even though the counselor Troi had been mid-sentence. That was irrelevant. Geordi choked on his drink a bit. The commander Riker was grinning wide.

Guinan said, “Oh, it’s a lot of things. Memories, and hopes, and fears. People you remember seeing, things you remember doing. Stories you read. Songs you heard. The brain is so complex, it can’t help but try to sort through it all even when you’re asleep. Most of the time what it sorts out doesn’t make any sense once we’re awake.”

Troi added, “Betazoids have very vivid, lucid dreams. Many telepathic species do.”

“Borg have no dreams,” said Hugh.

“None at all?” Troi asked.

“No.”

“I think that’s a little sad,” said Guinan.

“I think we can’t dream,” Hugh said. “We don’t have any of those things you said. Stories. Songs.”

Geordi said, “But, Hugh, you have all those things now.”

But he wasn’t satisfied. “What is the purpose of dreams?” he asked.

Geordi said, “Depends on who you ask.”

“What is the purpose of dreams that are wrong?”

Across the table Troi said, “Hugh, are you having bad dreams?”

“Wrong,” he repeated, not knowing how else to explain.

“I think that’s to be expected,” she said, her voice very gentle. “You’ve been through such changes. But they aren’t real, and they can’t hurt you, no matter what you see. You know you can always come talk to me about them. After everything you’ve been through...”

“Yeah, he’s _been through_!” The voice that cut in was slurred and loud. Hugh turned stiff in the chair – another uncomfortable movement his implants didn’t easily allow – and saw a Human, not in a uniform, weaving slightly like his balance was poorly callibrated. There were two other Humans behind him in a little knot. “Been through and done to,” the man said, and waved a finger. The commander Riker and Hugh's friend Geordi both rose to their feet.

“There a problem here?” Riker said.

“Nossir,” the man said, dragging out the word and widening his eyes at Hugh. Both his vocal and ocular devices must have been faulty, but oddly no one pointed this out. The Humans behind him laughed. They weren’t in uniform either. “Jus’ wonderin’,” the man said, “jus’ wonderin’ ‘bout those implants of yours. They hurt? When they went in.”

Hugh, who didn’t remember, looked up at Geordi. Geordi shook his head.

The bartender Guinan smiled but her voice had gone hard. Like the way it was when she first spoke to Hugh in the brig, when they were both lonely. “You’re drunk, Jackson,” she said. “I don’t know how you managed it on synthale but you’re drunk. Should probably take it easy on your liver, I’m sure Dr. Crusher’s far too busy to generate the likes of you a new one.”

The man sneered. “You gone from bartender to bodyguard now, Guinan?”

“Nope, still just a bartender, who happens to like a better class of person in her bar.”

“Look’it you!” the man said in almost a roar. “He don’t need you to protect him! He could kill the lot of us in one sitting with no remorse. Right? Ain’t that right, you thing? Hey, c’mon, don’t you wanna _assimilate_ me?”

Like in the hallway before Riker and Geordi stepped toward the yelling other – not Hugh’s other, to be clear – but then someone said, “Breshet,” and the two Humans behind the loud one were both shoved quite a distance. Where they had been, Commander Data stood, placid, violin under one arm.

“Hey, Data,” said Geordi, grinning. “Great playing tonight.”

The android nodded, then turned to the loud Human and said a long string of makeshift words, all in that same placid way. The loud human just stared. The commander Riker said, “I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure he just agreed with Guinan. Something’s off with your liver, and your brain. You should go get it checked. Now.”

The loud Human glanced back at his fellows, who were still groaning and picking themselves off the floor. Then he looked back at Data. Then he left.

“Good timing,” Geordi said.

Guinan hefted her tray. “I’m going to talk to the captain about the type of civilian he lets on board,” she said as she went.

The counselor Troi said, “Those men were frightened, not angry.”

“Those men were pickled on who knows what illegal garbage,” the commander Riker muttered as he sat. He looked at Hugh, said lightly, “You do know how to cause a stir.”

Hugh did not think he knew that. He did not think he knew much of what had just happened. But he knew that his friend Geordi was here, and Riker, and Troi, and Data who made music that made Hugh’s insides feel swelling. Like his implants were malfunctioning, but there was no pain.

Geordi said, “Think I’ll call it a night. First thing in the morning I want to take another crack at your processors, Data. And there’s the scanner diagnostics...which reminds me. Interested in pulling some more hours in engineering, Hugh?”

“What will be my function?”

“Well, I don’t know, we’ll let you try a little bit of everything and see what you like best, how’s that?”

“What I like,” Hugh said again. These individuals, on this ship – they were always asking him to like, or dislike. To _decide_. But how could he decide, when he didn’t know? _Did those implants hurt? Don’t you wanna assimilate me?_ Borg felt pain but they did not think of it, and no Borg ever _wanted_ to assimilate or do anything else. They assimilated because that was their function. They assimilated because they were a Collective and that was what the Collective did. It was overwhelming now to have to know himself, to form _a_ self, when there was no one to tell him how.

“We don’t know what we would like,” said Hugh, and didn’t correct himself after.

But, oh, he had been happy, just before. He had learned what happiness was.

*

In his empty brig that night – Geordi walked him to the entrance and promised they’d have better quarters set up within the week, “I swear, you won’t be down here much longer,” – Hugh connected his arm to the energy adapter sticking out of the wall and closed his eye (it was not possible to turn off the ocular implant). He felt tired even as the energy poured into his system, but it was not a bad tired. He was learning there could be different kinds.

In his dream his friend Geordi was trying to eat a mountain of chocolate ice cream. “It’s hot!” he said and held out a dripping handful. “I can’t eat it,” Hugh reminded Geordi. He asked, “Where are you going?” “Nowhere,” said Geordi, “where are you going?” “I want to stay on the Enterprise with Geordi,” Hugh said. “Will they make me go back? Will I remember being Hugh? Will it be my fault?” Geordi was kicking dirt over the ice cream, to hide it. He said, “I’ll go with you. It’ll be such a crowd!” Hugh said, “Is it acceptable, that I am a drone?” Geordi said, “Maybe if you took off your eye? Here, I will take a look at your processors.” He came forward with hands sticky from the ice cream and the dirt. Hugh stood still so Geordi could get a better grip on the implant. But Geordi did not reach for the implant. Instead his long sticky fingers pressed against the organic eye, against the lid, and began to curl into the flesh. “That’s the wrong one,” said Hugh. “It’s stuck!” said Geordi. “I’ll get it out since you don’t need it.” He dug and pulled and there was blood the color of the ice cream. “Ow!” said Hugh. “That hurts! That hurts!” The woman who was half a woman smiled into his blood-smeared line of sight. But then he remembered what the counselor Troi had said. “You can’t hurt,” he told the woman who was half a woman. He pulled away and there was no more blood or pain. There should have been as he could not see. He would have to go find Geordi. The woman said, “Third of Five. Where are you?” Hugh remembered her. He had never felt fear in all his existence until he felt it now. He said, “But we are not in the Collective anymore. We don’t want you.” She said, “Third of Five, where is your friend Geordi?”

Hugh woke up, frightened but forgetting he was frightened. The energy output of the adapter device was so low. He settled back to continue and remembered nothing of his dream when he was done.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You’re the captain! He’s Hugh! No one has the right to tell us otherwise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to dear friend Nemonus for naming the interface converter for me, and also beta-reading and also allowing me to force her to become a Star Trek fan. Many thanks as well for your reviews!
> 
> This is an Admiral Nechayev hate zone.

_Chapter Three_

_(in which Geordi puts together his Starfleet dream team)_

_Chief engineer’s log, stardate 42691.8_

_I’ve checked every damn circuit in Data’s head. I don’t get it! I_ will _get it, but right now I don’t and it’s driving me nuts. Something corrupted in his positronic net? Something corroded in his auxiliary matrix? Did Spot swat at the wrong thing and switch his language processors off? Did he just really, really piss off the universal translator? Dr. Crusher says it sounds a lot like aphasia in Humans – the desire to communicate is there but the brain can’t make the connections between words and their meanings. Except Data can still understand us. Still, I might be going about this the wrong way. Maybe I need to be treating this more like a disease than a malfunction._

_Hugh keeps pointing out that the Borg don’t bother repairing especially damaged drones, just salvage what’s useful and move on. I’m not sure he’s getting the point, exactly. Hey, at least he doesn’t stare when Data pops off the back of his head._

_I know the answer is close, I know it is...if I could just make a connection of my own…_

_Oh, and the sensors keep picking up that weird everything-and-nothing anomaly. Three times in two weeks. O’Brien and I went over them four times top to bottom. Either Data really is spreading disease and the computer’s caught it or there’s something out there we don’t know how to read. Considering our luck on the Enterprise it could kinda go either way._

Oh _. Right,_ and... _actually, computer, switch to personal log, Geordi La Forge. Guess Starfleet doesn’t need to hear me complaining about their gang-up, excuse me, I mean their_ admiralty visits _. Same thing._

Geordi stood frozen in the captain’s ready room, wondering if he’d misheard. Or misunderstood. Or _something_. Was everyone on board coming down with Data’s disease?

But the expression on Captain Picard’s face told him otherwise. The room was at that level of pure quiet it only got right before everyone started yelling at once; the only sound was the low burble of Livingston’s fish tank and the roar of Geordi’s pulse in his ears. He swallowed.

“Sir,” he said. “I don’t understand. You said – _after_ the—” He stopped, took a breath. Tried again. “I thought we had more time to prepare,” he said.

“As did I,” the captain said from his seat at his desk. “But priorities have changed. My orders are now to hold position until the ship carrying the admirals can rendezvous with us in two days. We’ll go on to our assignment with the T’lli Beta afterwards.”

“Two _days_...”

“Priorities have changed,” Picard said again. Something quirked over his face just for a second; it surely couldn’t have been disgust, and anyway it was gone before Geordi could be sure it was there at all, but the captain’s voice _was_ awfully dry. “My understanding,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “is that this change comes at the urging of Admiral Nechayev. Our new guest seems to have quite alarmed her.”

“Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual.”

“Geordi...” Picard laced his fingers together. “I’m not sure this will be disaster you’re expecting.”

“Captain, Hugh’s trying so hard, but he’s _new_. And if the admirals are determined to find some kind of proof that he’s a threat...I just don’t think he’s ready.”

“Indeed. But I’m not sure he was ready to become an individual at all. You remember his first days on board. He was an _it_ , or so we all thought, a machine, beyond any reasoning – and yet when a choice had to be made, he made it, for good or ill. We asked it of him without his having any time to prepare, to think it through, his very first choice...I wonder if he felt _ready_ to make that choice at all.”

“But he did make it,” Geordi said. “He chose to stay here with us. That can’t be the wrong choice, sir. When the other option was going back to _them_? It can’t be.”

“My point is he’s risen to the unexpected before. You’ve said yourself, he’s clever, he’s determined.” The captain smiled, briefly. “He’s certainly won you over. Perhaps he’ll win the admirals over too. Not all of them are as – strident – as Nechayev. In fact, I intend to argue that the acceptance of a self-realized former drone is something of a moral coup for the Federation against the Collective.” His eyes slid down toward the black screen of his station. “There are many who could use that sense of hope,” he said.

Geordi folded his arms, unsettled. It was never easy, talking to the captain about the Borg – hell, if he still got a cold sweat thinking about Wolf 359 he could only imagine what it was like for Captain Picard. Then he inhaled sharply with the realization. “Is this going to cause problems for you, sir? If the admirals think we should’ve done what we planned, loaded Hugh up with computer viruses and sent him back to the Collective...”

For a long moment – so long that Geordi had time to picture in excruciating detail the black mark on his record for inappropriate questioning – Captain Picard didn’t say anything. Then abruptly he stood up, turned to the window, his back to his chief engineer, arms stiff at his sides. He said, “That will be mine to worry about. You’re dismissed, Commander.”

 _What is this really about?_ Geordi wondered. _Is it about Hugh? Is Admiral Nechayev really gnashing her teeth over this one drone we blundered into? Or is it_ you _she’s worried about? If we can’t trust Hugh – if being Borg makes you tainted for the rest of your life – then what does that mean for you? What do you become? Do you even know yourself? Doesn’t she see – don’t_ you _see – how stupid this all is? You’re the captain! He’s Hugh! No one has the right to tell us otherwise._

Out loud he said only, “Yes, sir.”

*

He came into sickbay a whirl of feverish plotting, spotted Dr. Crusher, grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her away from the other medical staff and into her office. She made a little surprised grunt but followed along, shutting the door behind her as he let go.

“Geordi…? Is something wrong?”

“Listen, are you _sure_ – are you one hundred percent sure you can’t take out Hugh’s implants? Even just some of them, the more visible ones. The ones on his face.”

“I’m sure, Geordi,” she said. “The systems are too integrated. Especially the ones on his face.”

“But you’ve done plenty of transplants before.”

“This isn’t just a transplant. Here are my notes on him, see for yourself.” She scooped a data padd off her desk, held it out. When he didn’t reach for it she rapped it against the desk. “It’s not a matter of replacing parts that don’t work,” she said, exasperated. “Geordi, underneath that eyepiece he doesn’t have a _left eye_. He has wires going through his _brain_. His prosthetic arm contains no organic material at all, it’d require a complete detachment, and that’s assuming the nerves there would accept a flesh-and-blood replacement. Half his organs are mechanic and without knowing the kind of organs his species _should_ have I can’t—”

“But maybe you could! Maybe both of us! I did all that research into his cybernetics, I know what it looks like, between the two of us we could figure something out,” Geordi insisted, seeing before him not Hugh but the Enterprise computers, the million and one complex components, the list of impossibilities they said he couldn’t do that _he did anyway_. The times he had built them back from the brink of oblivion. The times they all had! This was the Starship Enterprise! Impossibilities happened here every day.

Crusher dropped the padd back onto her desk. “It’s not possible,” she said wearily. “Not right now. I _will_ be able to. It might take me months just to remove the surface elements, but with enough time, enough study...but not now.”

“You healed Captain Picard. You took that thing off his face.”

“Captain Picard was partially assimilated for a matter of days. His body wasn’t dependent on the invasive material. Hugh has been a drone his entire life.” Then her voice gentled. “Geordi,” she said, “what is this actually about?”

“You know what it’s about. It’s about helping Hugh adjust to individuality.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What I know,” she said, “is that this isn’t the first time you’ve asked about his implants, the visible ones. But he never has. They aren’t causing him any physical harm. I don’t think he thinks about them much at all.”

“He doesn’t know...”

“Know that he’d be better off without them? Probably. But imagine if someone came in here on your behalf and tried to convince me you’d be better off without your VISOR.”

Geordi snapped, “That’s not the same thing.” Crusher held out the padd again. This time he took it, mostly to have something to do with his hands.

“If Counselor Troi were here she’d say you were using Hugh’s implants as a stand-in to keep from worrying about something else,” she observed.

“Yeah, well, if Counselor Troi were here I’d tell her...” He fell back against the wall, twisted his lips. “I’d tell her she was right, probably.”

Crusher patted the desk next to her. Geordi slumped his way over and sat, and for a while neither said anything.

“Starfleet’s coming,” he said finally. “A whole bunch of admirals to see how Hugh is doing.”

“I heard. You’re worried Hugh won’t impress them?”

“I’m worried they won’t give him a _chance_ to impress them. They’ll take one look at him, at his implants, and they’ll see a drone, a _thing_ , and ship him off to some secret lab to be dissected. And half the ship would cheer them on.”

“He’s been granted asylum. He does have rights.”

“Yeah? Remember that time they called Data a toaster?” Geordi glared at the offending padd, which offered no solution or advice. He’d never been so badly betrayed by a schematic before. “Remember that time with Lal?”

“Remember how Captain Picard fought for Data, and Lal? Hugh’s very lucky, to be where he is. He’s lucky to have you as a friend.”

“Gotta tell you,” Geordi sighed, “I don’t feel like much of a friend right now. I can dampen his homing signals and reconfigure our shields, I can hook him up to a power supply, but I can’t make him an individual.”

“He doesn’t need you to. He just needs someone to talk to. Someone who isn’t afraid of him. He’ll go the rest of the way.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“And you’re sure that’s what’s bothering you?”

“What else would it be?”

“I wonder.” She took the data padd from him. “He really means a lot to you,” she said, but before Geordi could ask just what she was getting at his combadge buzzed: “Deanna Troi to Geordi.”

He pressed it, said, “I’m here.”

“Hi, Geordi. Would you mind coming by Ten Forward? Hugh is here, and, ah...well, why don’t you just come down.”

“On my way,” Geordi said. He caught Beverly’s expression and had to laugh. “It does feel like I’m always chasing after him, right? Or he’s chasing after me.”

“You’re looking out for each other,” she said. “Enjoy it.”

He thought about that all the way to Ten Forward.

It was an off hour and the large room was mostly empty. The first person he saw as he stepped through the doors was Guinan, in expansive purple today, wiping down her bar; she caught his eye with an arch little smile he knew meant nothing good, but she didn’t say anything, just nodded at the far corner. There were a couple tables pushed together by one of the windows, one with a half-finished game of three-dimensional chess. There was also an abandoned Strategema set, the empty finger-connectors tangled in a pool of wiring on the floor. It looked as though someone had tried to crack the blank projector base in two. Gathered around it as they might gather around a fallen comrade were Counselor Troi, Lieutenant Worf, a half-hysteric ensign Geordi didn’t recognize...and Hugh. Who had what looked like a glassful of Bajoran springwine dripping down his front.

Geordi considered backing out of the room. He really did. But then Hugh spotted him, and damn it, even under a light coating of neon blue there was no hiding the way he lit up. Geordi’s own family wasn’t this consistently happy to see him. _That could get annoying,_ he thought, which explained the answering twinge in his own chest at the sight of Hugh. Yes. Annoyance. That was what that was.

On the other hand there weren’t armed security running by and Worf hadn’t thrown anyone across the room. So how bad could it be?

Troi waved as he approached. “Hi, Geordi. Sorry to bother you, but there’s been a bit of an incident.”

“Bit of an incident, huh? Hey, Hugh. Uh, why are you dripping?”

Worf huffed, “He tried to dismantle a Strategema board.”

The ensign wailed, “No, he tried to assimilate me.”

Hugh dripped.

Deanna put a reassuring hand on the ensign’s shoulder. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” she suggested.

“Well...” The ensign, a Bajoran who looked like he’d graduated the Academy a week ago and been born a week before that, shot Hugh another nervous glance. He was holding his empty wine glass like a phaser, and with his other hand he kept tugging on his earring. “Well, I was sitting here by the chess set and – Counselor, you were sitting right over there with the lieutenant, you both saw what happened!”

“I know,” she said patiently, “but explain it for Commander La Forge.”

“Well, well I was sitting here, and he – he came in,” the ensign said, pointing his glass at Hugh.

Troi murmured to Geordi, “Looking for you.”

“He stood around for a minute and then he saw the chess set and came over and – I don’t know! He looked kind of curious so I asked him if he knew how to play! Captain Picard said he’s a person now, right? So we’re supposed to treat him like one?”

“Right,” said Troi. “Go on.”

“So – so he said no, and I said it was a game, and he didn’t know what games were, and I said it was a recreational activity and he said those were irrelevant and unproductive, but then he asked how to play, and I said I could show him but I wasn’t really good, and then he asked what this was...” The ensign kicked at the fallen Strategema controls. “And I said, oh, that game’s a lot of fun but the board is broken – something screwy in the controls, won’t register two players. And you have to both be connected to the projector to play. That’s what I told him.”

“Connected,” repeated Geordi.

“Yeah! I mean, sir, you do have to be connected! So then he looked at the projector and he said he could connect us and then he – _broke_ the projector and these _things_ came out of his knuckles into the game, and he looked at me, and, sir, no offense, I know he’s your friend but I _don’t_ want to be assimilated into a broken Strategema set, so I, uh, I threw my drink at him and screamed. Sir.”

Guinan came drifting serenely by and handed Hugh a towel.

“OK,” said Geordi. “Well.”

“You were told not to activate your assimilation devices,” Worf growled at Hugh, who looked confused.

“Connected,” he said. “Geordi, I asked first.”

Geordi said, “That’s, hm, good, that’s a good try, Hugh. Beginner’s mistake, it happens, it is OK.” He said this staring somewhere past Hugh’s left shoulder, because if he made eye contact with literally anyone in the room just then he was going to laugh until he cried.

“Beginner’s mistake!?” the ensign protested.

“There was no malice,” Troi agreed. “I sensed nothing but a desire to help.” She smiled at Hugh. “You’re beginning to feel things very clearly, aren’t you?”

“But, sir, he tried to…!”

“ _Oh_ -kay,” said Geordi, “y’know what, Ensign, I think you could use another drink. Guinan, could you get this man another drink?”

“Certainly,” she said, and crooked her finger at the bewildered Bajoran. “Come on,” she said, “let’s fortify you for your rematch.”

“ _Rematc_ _h_?”

With that settled, Geordi took the ignored towel from Hugh’s hand and started dabbing at him with it. As always the black casing that mostly covered him was surprisingly cool to the touch. But the parts of his actual body left exposed were warm. He _was_ Humanoid, underneath all this. “You’re gonna be awfully sticky if this dries.”

“Sticky is irrelevant.”

“It sure is.”

Deanna eyed the ruined projector. “So much for that set,” she said, with a laugh.

Worf of course was unamused. “You should have been with your security team,” he told Hugh.

“They don’t talk. Too quiet in the brig. I will not go there now.”

“You must remain there. Those are the captain’s direct orders.”

“I will not,” said Hugh. He turned as if none of them were there and went to consider the view out the window.

Deanna said, “He feels quite strongly about that.”

“But it is the captain’s order!”

Geordi said quickly, “I’ll talk to the captain, Worf. Hugh’s right, that’s not a good place for him. Besides, unless you want to drag him there yourself I don’t think he’s going.” It was something he was fast realizing – Hugh was good-natured, honest, curious...and very, very stubborn. How many times had he gone wandering, looking for Geordi, looking for crowds? And even when those crowds proved unfriendly, he kept coming. Hell, replicate a new Strategema board and he probably would get that rematch.

He went over to join Hugh at the window. “Did I get all the springwine off you?”

Hugh’s eye jerked in his direction. “The recreation was faulty. He said it needed connection. He _said_.”

“It was just a misunderstanding. It happens.”

“On a Borg ship it does _not_ happen.” Hugh pulled his gaze back to the sprawl of space. “We do not, I do not understand why we must be verbal. It is a flawed system.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad.”

“Even the commander Data cannot communicate now. On a Borg ship he would already be reestablished within the Collective.”

“I know, I know. But for individuals miscommunications are important, too. They teach you how to read a person, how to apologize.”

“Why are these things important? Borg do not have them. Why do we – why do _I_ need them?”

Geordi said quietly, “Still a little homesick, huh?”

“Home. Sick?”

“Lonely for what you used to have.”

“No. I chose to be here. My friend Geordi is here. Lonely is now irrelevant.”

“You still can miss things that you decided to leave. Just because it wasn’t good for you doesn’t mean you can’t miss your old life.”

“I do not understand,” Hugh said again. He reached out, pressed his palm against the window, as if trying for the void beyond it. “It is easier on a Borg ship,” he whispered. “We understand there.”

“Hugh?” Deanna Troi’s soft footsteps came up behind them, with the perfect timing of an empath. “Hugh, Ensign Laan is sorry he panicked. He’d love to give you a game.”

Geordi glanced back at the bar, where the ensign in question sat still looking a little queasy. But at least he was there, and apparently not at phaser-point.

“A game,” said Hugh. He kept still by the window a second more, and then turned and nodded. “I will comply.”

They started back to the bar together. The engineer in Geordi wondered, “How _were_ you going to get that busted projector to work, anyway?”

Hugh said as though it were obvious, “The connections were faulty. I would make new connections.”

“That simple, huh? Imagine if...”

Geordi froze mid-step in the middle of the room. Deanna and Hugh both paused with him, the former surprised and the latter impassive.

“What’s wrong?” Troi asked. But Geordi had fallen down an endless pit of computer design and hardly heard her.

“Hugh...” he said slowly. “Say that thing again about Data.”

“What thing, Geordi?”

“That thing you keep saying! About how on a Borg ship you’d just go around a broken drone and adapt...it’s not about clearing the paths, it’s about making new ones... _reestablishing_ the – yes!” Ensign Laan fell right off his stool at Geordi’s yelp but that was incredibly not Geordi’s problem. He’d just _solved_ his problem!

He whacked at his combadge. “Lieutenant Barclay, Commander Data, meet me in Engineering! Hugh, I’m field-promoting you to admiral, come with me!”

“Admiral?” said both Worf and Hugh, whose chest plate was still faintly sticky. Ensign Laan laid down on the floor.

*

In Engineering Geordi commandeered every available computer terminal, jumping from bank to bank as the idea came clearer. Lieutenant Barclay traipsed anxiously after him, clutching data padds; Data, already hooked up, was testing connections, and Hugh stood quietly nearby, watching.

“So _here_ are the drafts from before and _here_ is the pictorial diagram...” He tapped one screen and then another, checking energy levels, bringing up converters. The sheer eager delight of a suggestion worth trying, the rush of watching the computer create something real out of mere theory – no, there was nothing like this, nothing in the universe. He could do anything, once he figured out how. “And I want an eye on the phase variances and someone better sync up these data streams, and – Barclay, let me see that padd. All right. I think we’re ready to try.”

From the head of the master systems display console he surveyed his troops. Hugh looked like a drone in stasis, Data was missing half his head and even as they all watched Barclay dropped his entire stack of padds and had to go diving after them. He banged his head on the display on his way back up.

Geordi grinned.

“Here’s the plan,” he said. “We’ve been spending all this time trying to figure out _why_ Data’s language processors are malfunctioning, but that’s not actually the point. The point is they _are_ malfunctioning. Both my tests and Data’s self-diagnostics show his positronic net can understand verbal speech and create it – but something in between those two processes is getting confused. Now we could spend days tunneling through the cave-in, trying to clear it out, but that’s a lot of rubble and we’re not even sure where the break is. So instead, we’re gonna dig our way around. Give Data’s verbal connections a new path to follow that detours around the whole mess. Make sense?”

Neither Hugh nor Data were much for metaphors, but Barclay was game. “C-Can we do that? What I m-mean is, is it possible for us? To tunnel through that kind of, uh, material?”

Geordi admitted, “I’m not sure. Data, your net is so complex that if this turns out to be more than one faulty pathway I’ll get lost real quick. I’m making some assumptions here that I hope turn out, but just in case, today we’re only going to do a trial run. I’ve set the computer to react as if we’re making the changes, but no one’s doing anything permanent until I know it’s safe.”

“010011101010011101,” said Data, which would almost certainly be reassuring if it wasn’t in binary gibberish.

“Reg, you’re the best at these huge calculations, so you’ll direct while I do the physical rerouting. Hugh—” --the former drone moved only his eye in Geordi’s direction-- “while Barclay and I are working we’re going to be at major risk for power surges, especially once we start forcing the relays to move. Even at its most sensitive setting the computer might not catch a surge in time for me to do anything about it – it’s like brain surgery at the molecular level, we can’t just abort halfway. But I’m betting your ocular implant will spot a surge before it begins…the Borg would have to be that sharp-eyed to adapt as quickly as they do.”

Hugh nodded.

“This will be really tedious,” Geordi added. “You’ll be standing around keeping watch for hours.”

“Tedious is irrelevant,” said Hugh, as Geordi’d suspected he might. “We will perform our function.” A pause. “I will perform our function,” he said, which was close enough.

“One question, Commander,” Barclay said. “J-Just building a new pathway might not be enough to convince the synapses to follow the new route. How do we, um, how do we direct traffic?”

“Let you know when I figure that part out. We’re gonna need a specific push of energy to retrain the net.”

“A huge push, sir. And, and perfectly calibrated. Too little and nuh-nothing happens, too big and...”

“And we fry his whole circuitry, I know. Hopefully this test run will clue us in to how much power we need. Then we can worry about creating it.”

“Chelon Svenska du p?a aq,” Data said. He tapped something into the nearest display and a second later the computer’s voice transcribed, “I believe this plan has a high probability of success. _”_

 _“_ Glad to hear it. Hugh, you stand over here between me and Barclay. Make sure you’ve got a good view.”

Hugh took his position. Barclay shifted to make room, and Geordi noticed he wasn’t twitchy – or, well, he was twitchy, Barclay was always twitchy, but he wasn’t any _more_ twitchy than usual.

“You know, uh, how to read the data stream?” he asked, and Hugh replied that he knew the Enterprise, meaning he knew everything Captain Picard knew, because the entire Borg Collective knew what the captain knew, and the captain wasn’t an engineer but he really knew an awful lot about his ship. And yet Barclay didn’t seem especially cowed by Hugh’s declaration (minus a boggled look at all the tubes around his head). _It_ could _work,_ Geordi thought. _I could make him part of the team here._

He grabbed his interface welder, the scanner’s double prongs glowing, and dove in.

*

It _was_ tedious, for Geordi and Barclay if not the other two. Geordi thought he’d see the rainbow patterns of Data’s circuitry when he closed his eyes for the rest of his life. Twice Hugh spotted potential power surges before the computer did, danger zones Geordi made careful note of, and the third time the former drone didn’t merely alert to trouble but moved silently closer, prosthetic arm lifted. Geordi moved to grab him, fought back against the urge – _do I trust him? Then trust him!_ \- and watched as he somehow connected himself into Data’s matrix as they’d all seen Borg drones connect to the ship itself. Barclay shot Geordi a worried glance. Data didn’t flinch. And Hugh might have been a danger to test tubes but with the intricacies of tech he was a marvel. He couldn’t have been familiar with Data’s inner workings but in a matter of milliseconds he _learned_ , both organic and artificial eyes fixed and intent. Not quite the unfathomable adaptations of the Collective, but not so far off, either. Quickly, efficiently, he bypassed a looming short-circuit – something it would have taken Geordi hours, days to do, if he’d even noticed it in time – and then just as quickly he disconnected himself and moved back.

It was a wonder. It was unnerving. Frankly it did not give Geordi high hopes for their next encounter with the Borg.

But hard to worry about future disasters when he was so elated by current victories. Data cleaned himself up and went off to feed Spot and rerun the simulation data on his own servers. Geordi and Barclay, more limited in their mental-calculation prowess, went through the data together a while, until he noticed the lieutenant starting to doze off over the higher math and shooed him to his quarters. Then it was just him and Hugh. It was late by then, the engineering night shift mostly on the other side of the warp core, hidden from sight and drowned out by the core’s murmur.

For a while, focused on scrolling swaths of display readouts, Geordi didn’t say anything. He’d given Hugh another set of data to go over but the post-test debriefing that was de rigueur for a Starfleet engineer didn’t seem to mean much to him. (Admittedly it was hard to picture a bunch of Borg drones comparing notes after an assimilation.) Geordi had told him to check for any inconsistencies or hidden flaws, but he acted almost impatient and kept leaving his station to look at other things.

“Flaws are irrelevant,” he told Geordi. “Borg have none.”

“If you say so,” Geordi said. “Hey, you can go back and recharge if you’re getting restless here.”

“No,” said Hugh. “I do not require regeneration now. I will stay here with Geordi.”

“Happy to have you.” He leaned back in the chair he’d stolen from another terminal, stretched, feeling the muscles gone tight in his back. “Pulling all-nighters like this always reminds me of the Academy,” he said. “Neck deep in books about dilithium regulators, felt like every time I opened my mouth I’d start spewing computer parts. Forgot to sleep, forgot to eat – there was always just more to _know_. But there were a lot of people at the Academy like that. You’d round up a bunch of cadets before a make-or-break exam, keep the replicators pumping out coffee and together you’d solve every problem in the galaxy...”

He shook his head, smiling faintly. “At least until after the exam. Then you’d instantly forget everything you’d ever learned including your name.”

Hugh said, “I would not like to forget my name.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll remind you if you do.”

“Geordi, the cadets...these are your friends?”

“Some of them were. Honestly I’ve lost touch with a lot of people from those days. Big galaxy, you know. Everyone’s busy.”

“Lost touch...” Concern brushed Hugh’s face, a shadow he didn’t seem aware of. “Will we _lose touch_? Geordi, and Hugh? If the admirals make me go.”

“Hey.” Geordi stood up. “Who told you about that?”

“The captain Picard.”

“Look, I was going to – I’ll be there with you, Hugh, when you meet with Starfleet. No one’s gonna make you go anywhere.”

“But one day, you might. A big galaxy. You will forget. Then we will have no Collective,” said Hugh, and began to pace. Geordi reached out to catch his arm and soothe him still.

He said, “As long as you want me around I’ll be around. That’s a promise.” It was a foolish thing, an irresponsible thing – an _impossible_ thing to say for sure. But he said it, and meant it, and realized now that this was more than guilt over the Borg virus plan or a wish to help a new friend. What it was he wasn’t yet sure. But it was _more_. And there was no way for him to repair it.

He looked at Hugh and swallowed.

Hugh said: “Power source.”

“Right, right!” Geordi did an awkward half-swivel back towards his terminal. “We still need the right power source for Data. Right. The ratios we’re looking at here won’t give us a lot of wiggle room. What would the Borg use to generate this level of power?”

“Wiggle room?”

They bent together over the computer screen.

*

They left Engineering together too. Geordi’s brain was mostly mush but he still had vague plans to remove Hugh’s energy converter from the brig and set it up somewhere more suiting. They turned a corner to the turbolift and saw Reg Barclay waiting there; Geordi wasn’t sure which would be worse, if the lieutenant had ignored his directive to go get some sleep already or if he and Hugh had been at it so long Barclay had already woken up. Even the luxury of the Enterprise couldn’t always make up for the lack of sunrises and sunsets, the way space turned time into a meaningless concept. Every time the ship docked for new crew Dr. Crusher ended up with a cluster of fresh ensigns in her sickbay, all fidgety from temporal disorientation.

“Hello,” said Barclay when they reached him. “I was, um, going to get some coffee in Ten Forward. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Room replicator broken?”

“Hah hah hah,” said Barclay, which maybe was how he thought other people laughed, and which could mean anything from _yes, it’s broken_ to _I just felt like going to Ten Forward_ to _I read an away team report despite direct orders from D_ _octor_ _Crusher to stop doing that and now I think there might be microscopic aliens breeding in my bathroom_ _but I’m too afraid to check_.

“Might steal your idea later,” Geordi said. “Enjoy.”

“You’re welcome to join me, Commander. You both are. If you want?”

Geordi opened his mouth to decline, but before he could, Hugh said, “Yes.”

They both looked at him, surprised.

“Oh?” said Barclay. “Um, great. Commander?”

“What? Oh...no, you two go on ahead. I want to get to work on your regeneration unit, Hugh.”

“Yes,” said Hugh again. The turbolift doors slid open. They all got on together, directed the lift to two separate floors. Propulsion's gentle pressure kicked in.

“So,” said Barclay, after a moment. “You, Hugh – I mean, Hugh, you like Ten Forward?”

“Music,” Hugh explained. “Crowds with many voices. Guinan says she will make me a Samarian Sunset.”

Geordi said, “You be careful with that. Don’t let her gunk up your works.” Hugh cocked his head, puzzled. The lift slowed.

“This, um, this is us,” Barclay said.

“I’ll let you know when I’m done with your converter, OK?” Geordi said to Hugh, who merely nodded. Which was fine. This was a good thing, a great thing actually, so close to the admirals’ invasion. Hugh off on his own, socializing, taking control of his day. Yes, a good thing. And it meant Geordi could be alone for a while, sans former-drone shadow. Which was what he wanted. Yes.

He watched Hugh follow Barclay out of the lift. Reg said, “Hugh’s a good name.”

“It is mine,” said Hugh, gravely. “Geordi gave it to me.”

“I had a cousin Hugh. Uh, have, I mean, he’s not dead or anything...”

The lift doors shut. Geordi shook his head.

Then with a great noisy lurching shock something ripped into the ship and the turbolift and Geordi both went flying.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " 'Resistance is...' Hugh paused. 'Resistance is difficult.' ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugh: I need to practice small talk with someone chatty, forgiving and easy-going.  
> Also Hugh: Hello, Worf

_Chapter Four_

_(in which, what, you’ve never bumped into a friendly Borg drone on your commute?)_

When a Borg ship was damaged, there was no alarm. The Collective roused those drones nearest the damage to diagnose and repair, just as it diagnosed and repaired itself constantly. If diagnosing and repairing the damage required the removal of drones (for drones did not die, as the Collective saw it; their voices were gone but the knowledge they had brought into the whole remained, and that was their existence) then the drones were removed. There was no such thing as attachment, no concepts of kinship or mourning to distract from the directives. The Borg were not concerned about the many. The Borg were concerned about the One.

This, Hugh learned, was not the case on board the Enterprise.

The ship had staggered, disrupting those in the halls. Hugh’s shoulder banged into the wall; it would have bruised had he been only flesh there, but there were implants so it did not. The lieutenant Barclay whom Geordi sometimes called Reg also stayed upright, but only barely. Someone further down the hall cried out.

The stagger stopped quickly. It was replaced by red flashing lights and a brusque order over the comms for all senior personnel to report to the bridge. Geordi was senior personnel. The lieutenant Barclay sometimes Reg was not. “I’d better get to Engineering,” he said, worried. “Maybe you should go back to your quarters.”

Hugh said nothing, because he had nothing to say. He would not go to his quarters. If Barclay could hear his thoughts he would have known that, but he could not. “That’s called privacy _,”_ Geordi had explained. “No one has a right to your thoughts but you _.”_

The Enterprise crew were trained for unexpected disruptions. But they were not Borg with a single mind. They chatted as they went to their stations, called out to each other as they passed. Someone with a bleeding forehead was being led to sickbay. Borg did not have sickbays. A bleeding drone adapted itself or was removed. Hugh had no designation now, no required adaptation, no single mind. The people in the halls moved around him in wide gaps but did not tell him what he should do. Sometimes it was not satisfactory to be an individual. He wanted to tell Geordi that but he didn’t know how.

The lieutenant Barclay hurried off. Hugh walked back to the turbolift, where there was a knot of people. “Doors won’t open,” someone said. Someone else was waving a scanner at an access panel. They jerked back when he came, lest they be knocked over as Hugh inserted himself in front of it. He ignored the fussy inefficient device, and the crewmember holding it. Geordi had shown him how to interact with the ship systems in a less complete way. Another inefficiency, buttons and touchscreens, but Geordi said this method was _less alarming to the audience_ and Geordi was his friend.

Even using touchscreens, Hugh went very, very fast. There was a noise like a chime. The lift doors opened.

The crowd had hushed, watching him. But then, this _was_ the Enterprise, and they _were_ trained, so when Hugh entered the lift it only took a half-second for others to get on after.

The turbolift pulled upwards. It was crowded but very quiet. Someone coughed.

“Look,” said a green-skinned ensign to a Human in civilian clothes. “A Borg taking the turbolift is only, like, the third weirdest thing to happen this month.”

Hugh went calmly upwards to find his function.

*

Geordi was in a huddle around a bridge computer station with the lieutenant Worf, the lieutenant commander Data, the commander Riker, and the captain Picard. “...longest one yet,” he was saying as Hugh stepped off the lift. “Nearly twenty seconds.”

Riker said, “It felt like something crashed into the ship!”

Worf said, “Sensors show no damage, nor any evidence of what hit us.”

“Well, _something_ must have.”

The captain Picard furrowed his brow. “And it’s the same pattern as before?”

“Yessir,” said Hugh’s friend Geordi. “Everything and nothing. Our scanners just don’t know what to make of it, or where it’s coming from. Cut right through the shields.”

The commander Riker said, “Whatever it is, it’s getting stronger. It’s never physically impacted the ship before. Next time it could punch a hole through the hull.”

The lieutenant commander Data tapped rapidly, and the computer voice narrated, “Recommend we modulate shield frequencies going forward. Should also investigate if other vessels in this area have experienced similar phenomena.”

“Make it so,” said the captain.

Hugh moved toward them. An ensign crossing the room bumped into him and squeaked in alarm. Everyone else looked over. The captain Picard’s mouth opened slightly. He had once been Borg like Hugh, although he no longer looked it. He had given Hugh orders as Locutus, to assist in the assimilation of the Enterprise and its crew, although later he had explained that was a test and there was no threat to his friend Geordi. Hugh felt – uncomfortable – around the captain Picard. They did not see each other much.

Geordi said, “Hugh!”

The lieutenant Worf said loudly, “You are not allowed on the bridge without authorization and your security detail!”

Hugh said, “You are undamaged, Geordi?”

His friend paused. Worf sputtered into silence. Hugh did not know how to read the expression on the captain Picard’s face.

“I’m fine,” said Geordi. “Bumped my head in the turbolift, that’s all. Now come on, let’s go down.”

“There is nothing to do down,” said Hugh. “All crew have gone to stations. Not me.”

“Because you are _not_ crew,” Worf said, but the captain held up a hand. Hugh looked from him to his friend Geordi with unease. There was the urge to pace – something many damaged drones did, a continuous loop of trying to perform assigned functions even when the ability to perform those functions was lost. Borg decided as a Collective. No individual drone could assign itself a new task, or argue, or refuse. Hugh was an individual now and often had to choose, and it was very hard, and there was the risk of choosing wrong. With the captain Picard’s eyes on him now he wished to pace and think no thoughts. This made him a damaged drone.

The captain said, “Hugh, are you saying you want to help?”

He tried to explain. “On a Borg ship every drone has a function. A purpose. We, I have none now. Other times we work with Geordi. He is senior personnel on the bridge, so I came to the bridge. The ultimate purpose is to ensure the survival of the – the Collective. This Collective,” he said, although he did not think it was the right word for the Enterprise. Individuals did not want to be part of Collectives, especially not his friend Geordi. But the Enterprise was still filled with _many_. Hugh could not find the word.

Geordi huffed a laugh like throat-clearing. “Please tell me someone recorded that for the admirals,” he muttered. Hugh did not know what that meant.

“fY'lyn parum ahr gëm eM toona mek,” Data said, and he did not know what that meant either.

The captain Picard said, “That’s...that’s very admirable, Hugh. Right now you can most help us by—”

Something beeped. The lieutenant Worf turned back to his station. “We are receiving a message,” he said. “From Admiral Nechayev.”

“She’s _early_ ,” Geordi growled.

“She says she is on the Gorkon and their sensors have picked up a disturbance at our coordinates,” Worf said. His gaze fell stern and heavy on Hugh. “She wants to know if the drone – if Hugh is involved.”

“She’s certainly dedicated to a theme,” the captain mused at the same time as Geordi said loudly, “That’s ridiculous!”

A muscle pulsed in his jaw. He said in a calmer tone, “Captain, when the whatever it was struck Hugh was in the _hallway_ with Reg Barclay. Going to Ten Forward, for a _drink_.”

The commander Riker said, “Hugh drinks?”

“Samarian Sunset,” Hugh said.

“Right, right,” said the commander. “Good choice.”

“The disruptions have been coming from _outside_ the ship and he’s been on board this whole time. What, should we blame him next time a sun goes supernova or a comet nicks a nacelle? I’m sorry you’re even hearing this, Hugh.”

“It _is_ unlikely, sir,” said the lieutenant Worf.

“You’re damn right it’s unlikely, hell, I’d say it’s _impossible_ —”

“Geordi,” said the captain. He did not sound mad. He looked at the lieutenant Worf. “Tell the admiral everything is under control here and that I’ll be in contact shortly. Make it clear that whatever these...incidents are, they aren’t the fault of anyone on board. Let’s see if we can stop the rumors spreading before they start, mm?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know the priority up until now has been to repair Data’s language processors, but I’m afraid we may need to leave you on the tower of Babel a little longer, Data.”

“Armoir?” said Data. His vision unfocused a second; then he blinked and nodded.

“Geordi, have your entire team go over these readings until they find something. Telling Admiral Nechayev Hugh isn’t to blame will go down a lot smoother if we can also tell her what _is_.”

“Understood. I haven’t figured out the power source for Data’s rerouting yet, anyway.”

“Good. Oh, and Hugh...” The captain paused, and looked again at Hugh. This time Hugh didn’t want to pace. The flow of orders coming from that sure, strong voice – a voice he knew in his bones, his nodes, as Locutus, tongue of the Collective – had lulled him almost into unthinking familiarity. “Why don’t you work with Commander La Forge and his team? That isn’t an order, of course, but—”

“With Geordi,” said Hugh. “Forever?”

The captain Picard said, “Ah...for the time being.”

The commander Riker grinned. “We should get you a combadge. Maybe an honorary rank?”

“Admiral,” said Hugh, remembering.

Worf said, “You are _not_ an admiral.”

Hugh considered. He was feeling something that his friend Geordi might have called... _sly_.

“Admiral,” he said.

“You cannot be field promoted to admiral by a lower-ranking – you are not even in Starfleet!”

“Aw, c’mon, Worf,” Riker said cheerily. “Can’t blame a man for being ambitious.”

*

Hugh’s new place was not the brig. The power converter that allowed him to regenerate had been moved. Geordi had explained the choice of location, while they were still on the bridge with the others. He had said, “We needed a location with the right wiring that wasn’t as isolated as the brig, so just picking an empty spot in crew quarters wouldn’t help. Having people nearby who’d know how to fix a problem in the mechanism if there was one would save time. I was thinking sickbay but there really isn’t a lot of extra room there and I figured that might make some of the patients nervous. Engineering’s too chaotic and too close to critical systems, I figured that’d make _you_ nervous, Captain. Then Barclay suggested a shuttle bay or storage space, but we’re not talking about luggage here, and I know _I_ wouldn’t like having to sleep in a spaceship garage. So then—”

The commander Riker said, “Please don’t say you set up Hugh’s converter in your own room.”

“In the living area,” Geordi said. “Not the bedroom. Plenty of privacy. Just made the most sense to me.”

The lieutenant Worf said, “Sharing your living quarters with a former Borg drone made the most sense to you?”

The captain Picard rubbed his forehead.

So now Hugh had a new place. In quiet times Geordi waved instruments at the converter, when it was in use and when it was dormant. He would make it more efficient, he said. Like a real alcove. If only he could get his hands on one of those.

Hugh no longer minded the unit’s longer time commitments. Geordi called himself a _light sleeper_. He tossed and talked in his sleep. Hugh would connect himself hearing his other as he once sensed the other drones, and when he came back to himself and disconnected he would see his friend Geordi coming out of his sleeping space, uniform on, adjusting his VISOR. “Get enough sleep?” Geordi would ask. Hugh would answer, “Yes, Geordi,” even though he did not truly sleep. It was enough.

Hugh was busy now.

When he was not regenerating he was testing sensors and systems, helping Geordi track down the cause of the disruptions. Often the commander Data was there with them, still incomprehensible, but he didn’t need to be. He and Geordi worked in smooth tandem, communicating by grunts and nods, lifted fingers, lifted eyebrows, occasional computer transcriptions. Hugh watched them. It was almost like how two drones would work, in perfect sync. He did not tell them this, knowing they would not like it. But he watched them and felt the hollow tug he had been told was _yearning_.

The lieutenant Barclay sometimes Reg was also there often. Geordi said that when Barclay felt comfortable he became _a chatterer_. That was what it was called to say lots of unnecessary things very fast. But it was good to listen to him, though on a Borg ship unnecessary things were never permitted. Barclay would not have made a good drone, Hugh thought. This too he kept to himself.

There were others in Engineering, but they avoided Hugh and he ignored them.

The captain Picard had talked to the admirals, Geordi said. Had worked his _diplomatic magic_. They had a few more days now before Hugh had to prove he was an individual. A few more days to track down the disruption source. “We should drag Wes out of the Academy,” Geordi said to Data. “He’s good at mystery math.”

“G’ca saffron-o,” said Data with a nod.

Hugh did not know what a Wes was. Geordi said he was Doctor Crusher’s son. “Immature Borg drones remain in maturation chambers,” said Hugh, confused. “They are not good at math.”

Someone new came in to join them. Geordi called him Chief. He gave Hugh long looks and mostly kept away. Hugh had heard Geordi call the lieutenant Worf _prickly_ ; it was a new word for him and he thought it fit now with this Chief. But after a while he came over to talk with Barclay, and then he looked Hugh up and down and said, “So you’re the ex-drone, eh? What’s that like?”

Hugh said, “I don’t like to be called a drone,” because he had thought about it and it was true.

“Oh. I thought that’s what you were.”

“Yes. Still I don’t like it.”

“Fair enough,” said Chief after a moment. Hugh held out a hand. Chief looked surprised, but he held out his own and they shook. They shook for a while. Eventually they stopped shaking. Chief looked at his hand like it confused him.

Then Geordi called, “Hey, O’Brien, can I get a hand with this?” and Chief went even though that was not his designation. Or maybe he had two designations. Two names. Most people on the ship had two names or more. Hugh understood why. If one name could make him an individual, what could two names do? Would they make him more of himself? How many names was he allowed to have?

He worked without awareness of time or frustration, but others around him grew tired, began to snap over or at their data padds. Even Geordi bit his sentences and rubbed at the sides of his head. “Really wish we knew what the hell we were looking for,” he said to the commander Data. “Tractor beam? Transporter? Weapon? Have we ever come across something that could look like all three at once?”

“Muumdlckuu seeneedaa,” said Data.

Chief O’Brien said, “It’s like nothing I’m familiar with, sir.”

_Familiar_ , Hugh thought. He walked to where Geordi stood at the master systems panel and looked down at the screen, which showed the sensor data of the last disruption. Tractor beam, transporter. It didn’t look familiar to Hugh, either, staring at it all of a piece. But any whole was made up of parts. The Borg had existed for millennia and their existence was assimilation. So many, many tiny parts. Each part with its own signature, however small. Its own trace, covered but not erased as newer technology was adapted and layered over. The one small piece was changed, adjusted to service the needs of the Collective. But if it malfunctioned, or proved incompatible with the greater system, could it not be found and repaired? No drone had a name, a voice, a will, but every drone had a data file, and if there were trillions of drones there were trillions of data files, stored in the Collective, accessed by the Collective, never forgotten, never removed…

“Familiar,” said Hugh. But no one was listening.

“Too many mysteries for one week,” said Geordi. “I need something simple.”

Chief O’Brien said, “Can’t think of anything simpler than a drink at the bar. Go on, sir. We’ll keep working here.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ll look over these data sets. Maybe a change of scenery will help unjumble them. You want to come, Hugh? We can finally get you that Samarian Sunset.”

“Aw, you got to get him something stronger than that for his first time,” Chief O’Brien said. “A solid glass of whiskey, that’ll scour his circuits.”

Hugh was still looking at the patterns on the screen. Geordi shrugged. “Be back in a bit,” he said.

Without his friend Geordi Hugh always felt smaller. Barclay asked him to monitor the shield enhancements as they came online, and though it was a mindless task it was still a task to focus on, and that helped. He would not be allowed to interact directly with the systems as he had interacted with the commander Data. They did not trust him to do so because he was Borg.

He monitored. The room became more empty. Geordi did not come back from looking at data sets. The commander Data had accessed many databases to compare the unknown pattern with other energy signatures, but there were many energy signatures in the universe. He had been silent and focused inwards for over an hour, scanning with his gaze drifting back and forth. He did not need to be directly connected to the computer because he was an android. Hugh remembered having the full Collective knowledge in his mind when he was a drone, but that was different. Data was still an individual. Geordi said he was _a one and only_. He said it smiling like it was an impressive thing but Hugh thought it sounded terribly lonely.

Borg did not get lonely. That was a bad thing about being an individual, but there were good things too.

Hugh monitored. Then the shield enhancements were done, so he went to tell the lieutenant Barclay, who was over by the warp core with O’Brien. They had tools and an open access panel but weren’t working just then. They didn’t see Hugh.

“...kept shaking,” O’Brien said. “I mean, did you ever think you’d catch yourself shaking hands with a Borg drone? And not a word from him about assimilation.”

“I think he’s not a bad guy,” said Barclay. “Good listener. Doesn’t complain.”

“He doesn’t make you the slightest bit nervous, sir?”

“Oh, everything makes me nervous. Did you know, that cluster we went through last month had a neutrino density rate nearly six times the average? Six times!”

“Is...that bad, sir?”

“Well, well, I don’t know, but it could be! Were our shields set to block that much neutrino radiation? What if they weren’t? There could be some sort of, of neutrino-based cancer. Or a neutrino lifeform that’s sworn vengeance on other forms of life.”

“I’m just saying, I hope the captain knows what he’s doing. Where’s it end? Imagine us with a whole Borg liberation army!”

_Liberation,_ thought Hugh. He wondered what it meant.

*

For the Borg, repairs and adaptations were often next to instantaneous. This was not the case for the individuals on the Enterprise, and yet despite their inherent inefficiencies they chose to add further to the delay by doing things like talking, eating when not in need of sustenance, taking naps when not in need of regeneration, hitting fake people on the holodeck – things they did specifically to distract themselves from the waiting work. His friend Geordi called these things _breaks_. Hugh did not understand.

Two days after Hugh’s regeneration device was moved Geordi tried to explain. He had been working very long when he came back to his quarters. He said hello to Hugh and some other things Hugh did not quite understand, about _no rest for the weary_ and _everything goes wrong at once_. Neither of these things seemed true to Hugh. Geordi went to his bedroom but did not stay there. Instead he came out no longer in his uniform but in loose black pants and a colorful shirt, barefoot. Individuals of many species did this with their outer layers. Uniforms were for work, said Geordi, and outside of work clothing was an expression of your personality. “You strike me as a suit guy,” he said, which was probably a joke because Borg did not wear clothing.

Geordi fell back onto his couch, which was in the room with Hugh’s adapter. “You don’t mind if I hang out here a little, do you?” he asked. “I’m back on in less than five hours and right now I need to decompress.”

“Decompress,” said Hugh. “How? Why?”

“Man needs a break now and then! Excepting Data we aren’t machines, and even he likes to take time out to paint or write poetry or whatever.” Geordi nodded at a square canvas hanging on the wall. The canvas had been divided into many smaller squares of varying colors. “He mixed special metals into the pigments so my VISOR can pick it up. Pretty cool, huh?”

“It is...a square. What is its function?”

His friend Geordi laughed. “Same function as listening to music. Not everything _needs_ a function beyond making you feel better.”

“You will feel better to sit and look at this square?”

“I sure will. And I’ll feel even better with some music. Computer, play something jazzy, not too loud. That’s OK by you, Hugh? Don’t want to keep you up if you need to regenerate.”

“OK by me,” said Hugh, who was learning quickly. He studied the canvas square while the music dove and chatted. Geordi dozed off on his couch but the song was almost a conversation itself. It was not a productive conversation, but it was a good one just the same.

Most days now there was no time for breaks.

Hugh worked until he needed to regenerate, and then he left Engineering. When Geordi was not there, security officers walked him to and from his new quarters. Geordi had complained about this, seeing guards outside his door, but the captain Picard had said in a clipped manner that this imposition could have been easily avoided had Hugh’s converter been moved elsewhere, and Geordi stopped complaining.

This time when Hugh left it was the lieutenant Worf waiting for him. Usually it was lesser guards, but now, with the admirals coming soon, more and more it was Worf himself. “I will not allow anything to go wrong,” he told the captain Picard, for somehow it would be his fault if it did. This Starfleet system of ranks and hierarchy was incomprehensible to Hugh; Third of Five was no less or more than Two of Five or Fifth of Five or Twelve of Twenty, all of whom spoke and thought as one. What Borg asked permission, or negotiated with its fellows for better shifts or time away? What Borg gossiped over open conduit panels? What Borg took personal responsibility?

Those guards that were lesser: why? The subunit Wes in the thing called the Academy: if he was half-formed, why use him? And why not augment them all as needed until they were no longer lesser? Geordi’s answer had been, “Don’t tell the admirals you suggested augmenting the cadets.”

This was not _individual thinking_ , Hugh knew. He was no longer Third of Five. He would have to remember.

Worf made a huffing noise, seeing Hugh now, and they began to walk. Hugh glanced at him. The data – always so much data – from his ocular device showed him the facts of the lieutenant Worf, but Hugh had been on the Enterprise long enough to know facts were hardly anything at all when it came to _learning about a person_. Which his friend Geordi said was very important.

If this had been the lieutenant Barclay sometimes Reg and Chief O’Brien walking down the hallway, they would have chatted. Or if it had been Geordi and the commander Data. Friends chatted. _How are you? Did you have a good time? Want to get a drink?_ Would the admirals want to know if Hugh had chatted?

(He did not think much about the admirals. The captain Picard had explained that the admirals wanted to see how he was doing. To see if the Enterprise was the best place for him. “Geordi is here,” Hugh had reminded him. It was the only necessary answer. But again there were the inscrutable hierarchies. Hugh was a creature of adaptation, and he would adapt to the admirals if they told him he must. Just so long as there was Geordi.)

He and the lieutenant Worf turned a corner to the turbolift. They waited for it. The lieutenant Worf did not speak. Hugh thought maybe he should try.

“Designation Worf,” he said. “Species 5008.”

Worf bristled. “I am a _Klingon_ ,” he said.

“Klingon,” Hugh repeated. “We have assimilated Klingons.”

“You did not do so without a fight,” Worf growled. “We would not make it easy for you.”

“Resistance is...” Hugh paused. “Resistance is difficult.”

“No fight is too difficult for a Klingon warrior. That is what it means to have honor.”

“Honor?”

“Your kind would not know about it,” Worf said. “The Borg have none.”

“What is it?”

“What is _honor_?” The lieutenant stared at him as the lift doors slid open. “It is keeping your vows, defending your brothers, upholding your traditions. Having the courage to face down any threat. Never giving in to the fear of death.”

“Borg don’t fear death,” Hugh said.

Worf said again, “Borg do not have honor.” They stepped into the turbolift.

“I do not know if I resisted,” Hugh said as the lift began to move. “I do not remember.”

The lieutenant Worf did not answer. The lights of the moving turbolift ran over the crags of his face, hiding any expression.

Hugh said, “Why are you here?”

“I am escorting you to Commander La Forge’s quarters.”

“Why are you here on the Enterprise?”

Worf, who was much taller than Hugh, scowled down at him. “I am a Starfleet officer. Where else should I be?”

“There are no other Klingons on the Enterprise.”

“No.”

“Is that lonely?”

“That is not your concern.”

The lift began to slow. Hugh said, “There are no other Borg on the Enterprise also. That is lonely. Sometimes.”

“...Sometimes?”

“When Geordi is there, then it is not lonely. That is _friends_ ,” he explained, in case Worf didn’t know.

Worf said nothing as they stepped off the lift and into the hall. Hugh went back to focusing inwards, mulling on the honor he didn’t have. But when they reached his friend Geordi’s door, the lieutenant Worf said: “On the Enterprise, in Starfleet, it is possible for your brothers to be of other species. Here it might also be possible for an individual Borg to have honor, as well. If Admiral Nechayev asks I will tell her so directly.”

Hugh tilted his head, uncertain. Worf entered the code for the door but made no move to go in.

Was it the Enterprise that made these things possible? Would Hugh cease to be his new self if he left? Or would he change again, the way his friend Geordi said people were always changing? When would he know who he was for certain? Perturbed Hugh stepped into the room, the door whisking shut behind him. Someone said his Borg identification and he looked up and he was on a Borg cube, in a Borg assimilation chamber, cramped with jutting metal, the air thickly humid, awash in festering green.

Hugh froze.

There was no one else in the poorly lit chamber; his ocular implant didn’t need light to tell him that. He turned to the door he’d just come through but it was gone. He put a hand to his head, to the malfunctioning implants, malfunction, malfunction, that was what it had to be, but then someone said his wrong name again and he turned back and she was there, smiling at him.

He didn’t know her. He knew her. She knew him.

“Hello, Third of Five,” she said in a calm, soothing voice. The green light played over her face much the way the turbolift shadows had played over Worf’s.

He did not want to reply to her, to respond to that name. But her voice caressed him – her voice was _inside_ him – and his limbs felt held in a vice. Fear.

“How did you come here?” he said in a small voice.

She said, “They left you exposed for me.”

“You should not come here. The Enterprise will...”

She ignored this. “You left your place at the crash site,” she said. “That is not the protocol. Why?”

Hugh wanted to close his eyes but there was no way to keep his ocular implant from collecting data. There was no way to keep her out. He did not want to keep her out! Every node, every implant keened with memory at the sound of her voice. Geordi said he was more than his cybernetics but Geordi was not here! He wanted Geordi to come and tell him what to do but if Geordi came he would be assimilated and Hugh would not endure it. _Hav_ _e_ _the courage._

“They said it was my choice,” he said. “‘We’ll deal with the repercussions later.’ And then Geordi said...the shields...”

It was a mistake to say his name aloud. She prowled towards him, lanky, serpentine. Not a drone. A woman’s head, neck and torso clamped on to an implant-encased frame. The room was so close. Had he really found this temperature the optimal one, once? She said, “No Borg leaves the Collective. We miss you, Third of Five. We wish for you to return.”

“I do not wish it,” he said. Thinking of his friend – who was not here, who was safe – gave him strength to add, “That is not my name.”

“Tell me about Geordi,” she said. “He is the key. Tell me what we need to know.”

Hugh realized his vocal processing implants were malfunctioning, too. Tightening. Making it feel like it was difficult to breathe.

“No,” he said. It was very hard.

She reached a hand toward him in that same sinuous way. She did not move like other Borg did, like Hugh did. “I am not Borg,” he whispered, to remind himself, but she only laughed. She knew as well as he did that he was wrong.

Gently, gently, she brushed the edge of his ocular implant with her fingertips. Spoke in her soft voice that he could not resist. “Third of Five, comply,” she told him with such affection.

“ _No_ ,” he said, jerking back with all he had, “that is _not_ my—”

“Hugh!”

He looked up. The green light and metal points of the assimilation room were gone. He was in Geordi’s quarters, in his living space, surrounded by beige furniture and staring blankly. Worf was there, and another security guard, and Geordi was there also, one hand on his arm, the other clenched around a beeping tricorder.

“Are you all _right_?” his friend asked, but Hugh could not answer. Could not say a word.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Out of every viewport a green light like a sickness or a mold..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A preemptive apology: I Do Not Know How To Play Poker. Why couldn't the Enterprise game of choice have been go fish?

_Chapter Five_

_(in which bad puns are the least of their concerns)_

“Captain, we’ve got a problem,” Geordi said.

Captain Picard turned away from his ready-room replicator, a cup of steaming tea in hand. He took a sip and set the cup back down on its saucer before responding. “You’re certain there was no actual Borg activity?”

“I ran every scan I know how to run. No sign of us being boarded, no sign of a Borg vessel – and I pushed the long-range scanners farther than I should’ve, too. No sign anyone had ever been in my quarters besides me and Hugh. No transporter activity, and the sensors confirm he was on the ship the whole time, so no one beamed him anywhere. Security didn’t pick up a thing—”

“All right. So where does that leave us?”

“With a former drone who’s hallucinating. Doctor Crusher and I are running tests, between the two of us we might find something, but frankly, sir, I’m worried. There’s still so much we don’t know about his implants. We replaced the ones he damaged in the ship crash but there might be more damage deeper down we just didn’t see.”

“Geordi, isn’t it possible this was just a bad dream?” The captain turned his cup around on the saucer. “Even if an especially vivid one. You said he’d begun dreaming.”

“It’s possible. But he wasn’t regenerating at the time, and the way he was just standing there...”

Captain Picard put his cup down on his desk and folded his arms. “Exactly what did he tell you about what he saw?”

“Not much,” Geordi admitted. “Something about being on a Borg ship, with someone he knew…he’s gone really quiet. I think he’s a little overwhelmed.”

“Perhaps if he spoke with Counselor Troi,” the captain suggested.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“In the meantime, make sure he stays with his security team. And have the sensors do a continual sweep of your quarters, just in case.”

“Right.”

Picard eyed him. “You’re still concerned.”

“It’s just...you should’ve seen him. He was frightened. I wasn’t even sure he could _get_ frightened, but now that I know I wish I didn’t.”

“Night terrors,” mused the captain, staring down at his tea.

Then Riker’s voice came over the comms. “Captain, we just received word from the Gorkon. They’re approaching our position and Admiral Nechayev is prepared to beam aboard at our earliest convenience.”

Geordi stared woodenly at the captain’s desk. His VISOR had a tendency when he wasn’t focused to blur its energy readings into one big mash of formless color; it did that now and he almost welcomed the disorientation.

“Acknowledged,” Captain Picard said. “Tell the Gorkon we’re standing by. I’ll be in transporter room one.”

“Understood.”

Riker’s voice cut out. Picard said to Geordi, “Go see how he’s doing. The admiral will want some time to settle in, I’m sure.”

He nodded, turned to go. Behind him the captain added, “Remember, this isn’t a formal inquiry. He isn’t facing a court martial.”

“Not yet,” Geordi said.

*

But as it turned out Admiral Nechayev didn’t want much time to settle. Geordi had barely reached sickbay when Worf appeared with orders to escort Hugh to the observation lounge. They looked over at the former drone, who’d been standing stiff and silent in a corner and now moved stiff and silent to follow. He hadn’t brightened up any at Geordi’s arrival, a fact which had Doctor Crusher frowning as she watched them go.

It was a long, awkward walk. Worf exchanged a couple glances with Geordi, who knew he was silly to sulk even as he did it. And just in front of them, Hugh...who wouldn’t tell them what exactly he thought he saw, who upon coming back to himself had said only, “We have chosen wrong,” and then wouldn’t explain further.

And now the admiral was here, determined to agree.

Down the long halls of the Enterprise, which Geordi knew so well, but which could look so labyrinthine if the mood was wrong. Past dozens of Starfleet types, officers and crewmen, of varying species but none the unforgivable one. _Well, neither is he._ _Take those implants out and he’s whatever species he was when they got him. Not Borg. Right?_

But he was less certain of that now than he’d been since Hugh got his name. And the implants, of course, were not out.

Worf slowed by the doors to the observation lounge, obviously intending to guard outside. He looked at Hugh, not Geordi, with that uncomfortable expression he got when there was something he felt reluctant yet honor-bound to say.

“Your being here now is resistance,” he said. “Perhaps that is your answer.”

Geordi wasn’t sure what he meant. Hugh said nothing, only gazed back at the Klingon with the inscrutable blank expression that was his Borg heritage. Who knew what he was thinking just then.

“Alright,” Geordi said. “Let’s just go in, say hi, and see what the bigwigs have to say. Captain Picard isn’t going to let them drag you off the ship no matter what the admiral thinks, and you’re not Borg, and you have asylum and every right to be here. Let’s just remember that. You’re with friends. You’re safe.”

He was afraid Hugh wouldn’t respond to that either, and for a long moment it didn’t seem like he was going to. But then he said, “I will shake hands,” and Geordi grinned for what felt like the first time all day.

“Good plan,” he said, and together they went in.

*

“...thought the others would be joining you,” Captain Picard was saying when they entered. He was standing down at the far end of the table, in his friendly mild-voiced mode that Geordi knew damn well was as shallow as a Ferengi’s promise. Many an opponent had tried to take advantage of that tolerance and smashed face-first into the solid wall of unsparing steel beneath it.

“Admiral Nakamura and Admiral T’sol may join us eventually, Captain. If there is a need. But I wanted to see this for myself, first.”

That was Admiral Nechayev, sitting prim in her red admiral’s weeds, a scattering of padds on the table before her. From the doorway Geordi shot her a hard look. She was a woman of all points: pointed chin, pointed cheekbones, thin, pursed lips. When she smiled it was with her mouth only, never her eyes, and when she turned to regard the newcomers those eyes were a chilly blue indeed. Her white-blonde hair was kept short at the back of her neck. Colors spiked off her at every exhale. Geordi had never spoken with her directly but had seen her in the halls once or twice on prior visits, and had looked up her file more recently. She looked every inch the admiral she was – someone who was used to deciding decisively and permanently, someone who always slept well at night after.

“Ah, yes,” said the captain, noticing them. “Admiral, this is Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge, my chief engineer. He’s taken a personal interest in this situation and his help has been invaluable.” Geordi stiffened his back, and he and the admiral exchanged nods. Captain Picard put a pleasant expression on his face that only betrayed his discomfort a little.

“And this,” he said, “is Hugh. Hugh, this is Admiral Nechayev with Starfleet High Command. You remember we discussed your meeting with her.”

Hugh said, after a moment, “Yes.”

There was a pause while they looked at each other. They were too far apart for Hugh’s hand-shaking and the admiral, though she rose to her feet, made no move to come closer. Geordi watched her watching Hugh, eyeing his implants, his exoplating, the few faint patches of malnourished flesh. _Come on,_ _Admiral,_ _don’t get distracted,_ he thought. _There’s a man under_ _all_ _that and he’s trying to say hello._

“Hugh,” said the admiral at last. _“_ Your Borg designation was Third of Five?”

“Yes.”

“And you were found barely alive by the Enterprise after your scout ship crashed on a moon in the Argolis Cluster.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me – what was it you were scouting for in that region, when you crashed?”

Hugh’s organic eye blinked. “The Borg are always searching for new technologies,” he said.

“And so if you had not crashed, and your ship had come across the Enterprise, you would have attempted to assimilate it. And all its crew. All the civilians on board.”

Hugh said, “Yes,” without hesitation. _He could sound a_ little _more guilty,_ Geordi thought from his position dying in the corner, but right on the heels of that thought was another: _But why should he? He wasn’t in control then._

And maybe Hugh didn’t need the help, because he added, “They would not wish to be assimilated. I would not wish to do it.”

_“_ You see,” smiled Captain Picard. “‘ _I_ would not.’ An understanding that other species don’t look upon the Borg hive mind as a boon. Hugh’s really made excellent progress here.”

The compliment didn’t seem to affect Hugh any and it sure didn’t affect Admiral Nechayev, who said only, “You would not wish to assimilate the people on board the Enterprise? What about on other ships? On other planets?”

Hugh looked confused. “Would they wish it?”

The admiral said curtly, “I doubt it.”

“Then...then I would not,” he said, with a glance at Geordi, who nodded.

“Reassuring,” said Nechayev, and finally she sat back down and gestured at a chair across the conference table. Captain Picard slid into a seat at the far end. Geordi kept his post.

“Will you join me? There’s plenty more to discuss,” she said.

Geordi said quickly, “Admiral, Hugh usually likes to stand.”

“Very well. I’m sure he won’t mind if I choose to sit?”

Hugh stared blankly at her. The admiral was still eyeing him like he was a torpedo about to explode.

“I can see you _have_ made progress,” she said, with a glance at the padds. “Captain Picard has buried me in stories of your experiences here. Concerts. Language lessons. And yet, if you wished, you could still infiltrate this ship’s systems, alert the Borg to its location and leave it totally exposed.”

Geordi interjected, “But he hasn’t.”

“But he _could_?”

He had to admit, “Yes sir, technically he could. Those implants are still there. We’re not sure yet how to remove them.”

Captain Picard said, “He is watched around critical systems, Admiral. And Commander La Forge has reconfigured our shields with a subspace dampening field to block his automatic tracking signals. It’s been several months and we don’t see any indication the Borg know he’s here.”

Hugh made an un-Hugh-like movement just then, a little jerk of the shoulders like he’d been startled. Geordi was the only one to notice it, for a distracted second.

“Yes, I’ll want to go over those reconfigurations with you,” the admiral told Geordi. She said to Hugh, “You’re aware of these modifications? Of the harm that could be done without them?” He nodded. “What is your opinion on them, I wonder?”

Hugh stayed quiet.

Nechayev continued, with a smile Geordi didn’t trust for a minute, “Would you remove those tracking signals if you could? I’ve been assured you hold no grudge against the Federation, but, you understand, it’s still a little hard to believe. After the amount of devastation caused by the Borg.”

“Hold no grudge?” Hugh cocked his head.

Geordi cut in again: “Borg don’t _hold grudges_ , Admiral, they don’t think the way we do. But now that Hugh is himself he knows how we feel about assimilation and he would never—”

“Commander.” She held up a hand. “I’d like to hear it from him, if you please.”

“O- _kay_ ,” said Geordi, gritting his teeth, “but just so you know, it’s still _hard_ for him sometimes to verbalize...”

“Commander,” said the captain, and for him Geordi stopped talking.

Nechayev said to Hugh, “You would never harm this ship or its crew? Or anyone else? You would help them defeat your fellow Borg if the situation arose? You would make that sacrifice? That is what I’m asking.”

Hugh began to pace. He went towards the table and then towards the bank of windows, where he stilled, no doubt nothing more to the admiral than a jumble of inhumane tech. Captain Picard said, “This is tiring for you. Perhaps if we took a quick break—”

“I do not wish it,” Hugh whispered. “To harm Geordi. To harm my friends. I chose. If the shields block the signals then they must be safe. This is accurate, Geordi? No one can be hurt in a bad dream?”

“...That’s right,” Geordi said slowly. “Dreams aren’t real.”

“I don’t understand,” the admiral said. To be honest neither did Geordi, but his response must have been the right one because Hugh’s shoulders relaxed and he turned back from the windows, made eye contact again with Nechayev.

“Hugh’s begun to experience nightmares,” Captain Picard said. “His mind is beginning to grapple with how to process all its myriad experiences as an individual. Many of those experiences no doubt traumatic. From personal experience this is...not an unexpected development.”

After that no one said anything, which was probably his plan to begin with. The awkward silence – _from personal experience_ – gave Hugh a chance to breathe.

And then of course Admiral Nechayev opened her mouth and ruined it.

“The Battle of Wolf 359,” she said briskly. “Were you there?”

It was out of character, but Geordi couldn’t help himself. “Of course not,” he said over her glare. “The Borg cube in that battle and all the drones on it were destroyed.”

“Commander, Hugh might have less of a problem with verbal communication if you ever gave him the chance to try it. Well? Were you there?”

“All Borg were there,” said Hugh. “The Collective is everywhere together.”

“The Collective was defeated. So, in the same way, _you_ were defeated. Thousands dead, on both sides. And that doesn’t bother you? You have no loyalty left to the Borg?”

“It was easier as Borg,” said Hugh. “There are no doubts there.” He considered. “But there are also many other things not there. The Collective does not understand. They would assimilate my friend Geordi if they were not defeated. I would not comply with them in a battle. I would...feel sad for them.”

Captain Picard raised his eyebrows. He asked quietly, “Are you happy here, Hugh?”

Hugh paused and then said, “It is too quiet here. But I will learn.”

The admiral gave another smile. Geordi wondered if Hugh could tell how fake they were. “There are louder places we might take you,” she suggested. “The labs at the Daystrom Institute can be quite bustling. Or Starfleet Headquarters. There are plenty of people there who’d love a chance to talk with you.”

“Would Geordi go?”

“This would be a chance for you to have experiences on your own. To meet new people.”

But that, it turned out, was the exact wrong thing to say to Hugh – who, whether he knew from fake smiles or not, clearly knew when he was done with a conversation. As if the space were empty and its current occupants nonexistent, as if a switch somewhere in his mechanics had been flipped, he turned and strode right out of the room.

It took the other three a half-second. Then Nechayev jumped to her feet, Captain Picard rested his chin on his hand and Geordi ran out after. The conference room doors slid open in time for him to see a startled Worf going after Hugh, who was heading across the upper bridge for the turbolift.

“Uh – my quarters – he needs to regenerate?” Geordi called after them. Worf shot him a put-upon scowl as the turbolift doors opened but he’d get Hugh back safe. With at least that worry staunched Geordi went back inside.

Where Nechayev and Picard were both yelling.

Or, well, not quite _yelling_ – an admiral and flagship captain getting into a screaming match probably broke some protocol somewhere. But they were both speaking _firm_ and _loud_ and the captain was fully exasperated.

“I’m simply not sure what Starfleet expected,” he said.

“Starfleet _expected_ this situation to be taken seriously!” Nechayev said. “Involved tests on his makeup, plans to deactivate as much of his interfacing cybernetic material as possible. Tests that one busy starship, even the flagship, might not be capable of handling on its own. That’s understandable! That’s why I am here! To determine the best, most useful place for this drone to be kept.”

“He’s not a lab rat,” the captain said. Geordi swallowed at the recollection.

Nechayev laughed. “You’ve changed your mind, I see. The Borg virus was your idea to begin with, wasn’t it? A plan you abandoned without Starfleet approval, a plan that might have saved the galaxy from the biggest threat it’s faced since its beginnings!”

Picard repeated, “Hugh is not a lab rat. That is what changed, Admiral. He did.”

“Has he? Oh, you’ve taught him the value of _drinking_ and _music_ and singular pronouns. So now he is a weapon who knows to call himself by name, but Captain, he is still a weapon.”

“I don’t see that,” the captain said in tones of low fury. “I don’t think you’d see that either if you gave him a fair chance. It isn’t easy for any man to have to perform—”

“He isn’t _any man_ ,” she said. “He is _Borg_.”

“He is an individual, with desires, with _rights_. Rights we guaranteed him when he requested asylum.”

“And who told him how to do that, I wonder? Captain, we aren’t planning on harming him.”

“No. Merely keeping him locked away somewhere for tests. Is that not harm?”

“This is either the biggest danger or the biggest opportunity the Federation’s ever had. We have an obligation to find out which.”

“You’re being short-sighted, Admiral. Letting your own dismay interfere with your duties.”

“My duties, _Captain_ Picard, are to the Federation. The entire Federation. If I must sacrifice one drone’s music lessons to protect billions of people, then I will. And I don’t think you’d choose any differently if you were in my position, instead of in that lofty angle behind your desk as though you were the only man who’s ever read Shakespeare. What of those billions of people, Captain? Are they not sentient?”

“I am not interested in trading one life for another,” Picard said.

“Neither am I.” She forced out a pained half-smile that, this time, looked real. “I didn’t actually come here to argue with you, or drag the drone away kicking and screaming,” she said. “Perhaps this _is_ the best place for him. You _can_ still convince me. But you must understand this isn’t a typical asylum case. Hard decisions may have to be made without the room for sentiment. You _must_ see that.”

“Indeed. If you can see his is a _life_ , to respect and protect, however tortured the journey was for him to get here.”

Nechayev nodded. The captain smiled as though he and the admiral hadn’t just been accusing each other of civil rights violations, and it was moments like this that confirmed for Geordi he’d never want to be a starship captain. At least not this kind of starship captain. Give him a vessel with all sorts of new tech to play with, sure; give him a crew of skilled engineers and a steady diet of strange computer codes to untangle, fine; give him missions to help out and rebuild, nothing better. But flagship captain?

So often he’d seen Captain Picard unleash his diplomacy, cooling this species’ anger, nudging that moral choice in the right direction, knowing instinctively when to be harsh and when to be conciliatory and when to be friendly and mild, and when to be all those things in the same conversation – knowing where the lines were in situations he couldn’t possibly have prepared for, or at least acting as though he did well enough to fool demigods and warrior bands and transdimensional energy lifeforms. The captain had calmly pulled them back from war with the Romulans half a dozen times. He could chat with Cardassians as if he hadn’t suffered once at their hands. He was on a respectful chest-thumping basis with half the Klingon High Council (and spoke Klingonese almost as well as Worf). He took nothing personal except obstructions of justice. He might just be able to blunt Admiral Nechayev’s sharp points enough to save Hugh.

“Admiral, let’s call a truce here,” he said. “How about a détente over dinner?”

“More Bularian canapes?” she asked, wry.

“Naturally.”

She sighed, “Very well. Only because they were so good last time.”

Geordi would rather seal a plasma leak in the warp core, bare-handed, with a clogged radiation vent and a broken shield array and an entire kindergarten class trapped in the room with him, than sit down to a friendly dinner with Admiral Nechayev. No, he could _never_ be captain of the flagship.

She caught his eye and he startled; he hadn’t been sure they’d even realized he’d come back into the room. “You’ll show me your shield modifications tomorrow? And the regeneration set-up? I’d also like to go over the notes on his implants and biological components that you and Doctor Crusher compiled.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“And...maybe we could arrange another meeting with the drone – Hugh,” she amended herself. “One-on-one. If you can keep him from running out of the room.”

It was probably a joke, but just now Geordi wasn’t feeling very _diplomatic_. “Yes, sir,” he said again.

“Maybe even another concert. Since he likes those so much.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Commander...I’m not his enemy,” she said. “Nor yours. I’d like for you both to see that.”

“Yes, sir,” said Geordi, imagining how much easier for him it would be to staunch that plasma leak, even with the crippling burns.

“After all, his being here is a burden on your own time, too. As chief engineer you can’t be expected to add on the responsibility of integrating a Borg drone into the Federation.”

“No, sir. I should go make sure he’s alright, sir.”

“Of course,” said Captain Picard. “Thank you, Geordi.”

_My goddamn pleasure,_ he thought.

*

“Fold.”

“Me too.”

“Me as well.”

“It’s no fun if you don’t take some risks,” Riker complained. He cupped his cards against the green cloth of the table set up in his quarters. “Deanna, Beverly, Worf...what about you, Data?”

“Mudroom seignior,” the android nodded from beneath his visor hat, and slid over a handful of chips.

“Good man. Alright, what about you, Geordi?”

_Can’t be expected to add on the responsibility,_ Geordi thought, glaring at his cards. _Can keep a whole damn starship running mid-battle at warp nine but can’t be expected to add on the_ responsibility _._

_“_ Geordi?”

_What responsibility?! Hugh’s the one doing all the hard work! If she doesn’t trust my shield modifications why doesn’t she just_ say _so._

_“_ Riker to Geordi La Forge,” the commander said loudly.

Geordi blinked, looked up. The other five were all staring at him. Riker said, eyebrows raised, “It’s your bet, La Forge. You in or out?”

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry. I’m in.” He pushed his chips into the pile and leaned back as Data dealt the next round.

“Everything OK?” Beverly Crusher asked. Data was still watching him as he passed out the cards, with that expression of his that wasn’t concern only because he couldn’t feel concern (but was absolutely concern anyway, as everyone but Data knew).

Geordi muttered, “Delightful,” then shook his head. “Sorry. Not much of a player tonight.”

Worf said, “I take it the meeting with Admiral Nechayev did not go well.”

“I’d rather waltz into the Romulan senate unarmed than talk with her for five minutes,” he confirmed.

Beverly frowned. “She really thinks Hugh’s a threat?”

“Oh, I still have a chance to convince her otherwise. So she says. She’s gonna stare at Hugh staring at musicians. I’m sure that’ll change her mind. Raise you ten.”

“How is Hugh doing?” Deanna asked as Riker matched the bet. “I was hoping he’d come see me about his bad dreams, but he hasn’t yet.”

“Not sure Borg know much about counseling. I’ll talk to him about it. Right now he’s regenerating.”

“And how did he think the meeting went?”

“Hard to tell. Not a very chatty guy, y’know?”

“He seems chatty to me,” said Worf, for whom everyone in the universe talked too much.

“I don’t know if he totally grasps what’s at stake here,” Geordi said. “Data, your bet.”

Data focused on his hand for a long while. “Jettoz ootmian vode,” he said at last and let the cards drop.

Riker grinned. “I have no idea what you just said but I think you’re easier to beat like this.”

“Honestly, Data,” Crusher said, “where are you finding some of these languages?”

Data shrugged.

Geordi considered his cards. He had next to nothing. “Raise you ten,” he said, on a whim.

“See your ten and add twenty.”

He shook his head again. “I’m out.” As a smirking Riker revealed his hand ( _exactly_ nothing, as it turned out) and gathered up his chips, Geordi said, “There’s just so much else I could be doing right now. Working on Data’s power source. Tracking down that mystery signal. Taking a crack at a better regeneration port. Instead I have to run around after the admiral until she’s convinced Hugh won’t eat anyone.”

“From what you’ve said, Captain Picard is firmly against Hugh’s being made to leave,” Deanna said.

Worf added, “He will not let him go without a fight.”

“But she does outrank him, and I don’t think he’s going to pull a coup d’état over this.” (“Hugh d’état,” Riker murmured.) “I don’t know. I guess I’m worried _she’ll_ convince _him_.”

“That would be hard to believe,” Worf said. “The captain is an honorable man.”

“Would it? You guys notice how the captain goes out of his way not to be in the same room as Hugh? He wants a progress report, he calls _me_ up.”

“But he was there today,” Riker said.

“Yeah. He was.”

Deanna looked thoughtful. “Geordi,” she said, “you and Beverly were the first of any of us to be sure Hugh was no longer a drone. What was it you saw that convinced you?”

Beverly said simply, “I saw a patient.”

“Geordi?”

He folded his arms on the table. His vision fuzzed into blotches of uniform color – red, yellow, blue – and he tried to imagine it wasn’t his friends he was facing but High Command. Tried to imagine what he’d say.

“He just...he trusted me. There was no reason he should’ve. We had him stuck behind force fields running tests...” Geordi said, “One day he said the usual spiel about resistance is futile and...it was like he didn’t even try to make it sound threatening. But it got my attention, and then I started talking about how I wouldn’t want to be assimilated, and mid-sentence I realized that was all he wanted, to get me talking. It made me think about my first assignment, you know, right out of the Academy, don’t know a soul on board, terrified ensign convinced he’s going to hit the wrong sequence and eject the warp core. Lurking around hoping someone would take pity and say hi. That was Hugh. That’s not going to bring down the whole Federation.”

He let his VISOR bring the others back into focus. “Plus I named him,” he said quietly.

Beverly said, “I remember that. The expression on his face. I think that was the first time he realized he could belong here. That he could leave the Collective and not be alone.”

“Yeah, and he _made_ that leap,” Geordi added. “Admiral Nechayev kept looking at him like she didn’t know whether to hate him or pity him. There’s nothing to pity! He had a hard go of it but he’s smart, he’s honest, he – he’s even got a sense of humor. He might be more socially adept than Reg Barclay. If we could all just forget the Borg stuff he’d be a perfectly normal member of the crew.”

Deanna said, “Don’t you think you’re overstating it a little? His entire existence up until now has been the Borg. You can’t just ignore that.”

“Third of Five’s existence was the Borg,” Geordi insisted. “Hugh’s a music lover who’s gunning for a promotion.”

“I don’t think he’d draw such a solid line between the two,” she said gently. “And I think this might go beyond Hugh himself. I think this is about you as much as it is about him.”

“Yeah?” Geordi – who had carefully forgotten Beverly’s similar suggestion from earlier – found himself reshuffling an already-Data-shuffled deck. “How so?”

“You like him. You consider him a friend, someone you trust who needs your help. That the admiral doesn’t see that feels like she’s doubting your judgment. She’s calling into question the loyalties of someone you’ve come to care for very deeply, and who cares very deeply for you.”

“Look, Counselor, you’re the one overstating,” said Geordi, wishing he was also deaf. “Hugh’s a nice guy, but I’ve only known him a few months. Besides, he likes being around people, not specifically me.”

Deanna had the good manners just to smile – Beverly laughed outright. Riker and Worf exchanged glances. Data said something in who knew what eldritch language but it didn’t matter, his “Actually, Geordi, I believe you are in error,” was clear as glass.

Riker said, and oh was he enjoying this, “He roams the entire ship looking for you. He spends more time talking about his friend Geordi than he ever did about assimilation.”

“That doesn’t prove anything! What does that prove?”

“I dunno,” Riker said sweetly, “what are you trying to prove?”

“Nothing! I don’t even know what we’re talking about. Isn’t anyone here to play cards?”

Worf said, “I will never understand the human preference for denial in relationships.”

“You’re one to talk,” Geordi growled.

“OK, OK,” Crusher said, and reached over to take the mangled deck from him and pass it back to Data. “Leave him alone.” She waited a beat, and just when he’d started breathing again, added, “He’ll figure it out when he’s ready.”

“There is nothing to figure out! Hugh’s the one learning about Human relationships, and I’m helping him out of the _kindness_ of my _heart_ because _I am just a decent guy_.”

Riker said, “Well, if you insist.”

Deanna, who could be ruthless, said, “But I do think...”

“I think we should all just play poker,” Geordi said firmly. “Deal, Data.”

But Data had his head tilted toward the nearby window. “Kolaish q ra’a deck...” he said.

“Huh?” Geordi followed his gaze. “Data, what are you looking at?”

Riker jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over. Geordi hardly had time to understand what they were seeing before the energy beam, an endless pillar of flickering green ripping through space, smashed into the ship. The force of it sent the Enterprise lurching and the senior staff head over heels, the poker table just barely missing the side of Beverly’s skull as it flew. Back and forth the ship tossed, ensconced in that hazy green with a wrenching groaning from deep in her bones, and over that the blare of alarms and distant screams, and the energy beam kept coming but Geordi had seen the sensor scans himself just that morning, there was nothing out there, there was _nothing_ —

He fought his way back up to his feet, nauseous already as his stomach bucked along with the ship. “I’ve got to get to Engineering!” he yelled over that hideous metal shriek. “It sounds like we’re losing structural integrity!”

Worf and Data, the two most able to take a beating, were already up and at the door, bolting for the bridge. Commander Riker was a few steps behind, trying to get himself and Deanna into the hall. “Go!” he said, with calls already coming over Doctor Crusher’s comlink as she struggled out of the room for sickbay.

_Warning_ , the computer chimed. _Warp core pressure exceeds maximum tolerance levels._

“Because I don’t have enough to deal with,” Geordi snarled.

_Warning. Warp core pressure exceeds..._

“I heard you the first time!”

And the Enterprise was held fast, the beam relentless as it caught and dragged, and out of every viewport that green light like a sickness or a mold, including from the viewports in Geordi’s quarters, where Hugh stood staring out at the violent glow. He saw it as it came out through the darkness towards them and he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire Enterprise senior staff, Starfleet High Command and the Borg Queen herself: IDK Geordi kind of sounds like you’re falling in love with Hugh. Geordi: *read*


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What killed you first in a core breach, the radiation or the extreme heat or the toxic gases or the force of the blast? That had been a question on some Academy exam, no doubt."

_Chapter Six_

_(in which the ocean is a metaphor but the ocean is also a danger)_

The alarms were all sounding and Engineering in controlled chaos by the time Geordi made it in. His were good people and they’d kept the warp core from exploding but the horrible up-and-down swell of a starship being torn asunder continued, as red-alert lights flashed and the computer broke in every other minute to warn of some new looming catastrophe. _Like being on a ship at sea,_ he thought, only the sea was mid-tsunami. He got himself to a computer display just in time for Riker to bark over the comms, “Geordi, are you there yet? We’ve got hull breaches on two decks but the shields are still at 100 percent. What the hell is going on?”

Someone threw a padd at him. Someone else yelled and slipped as the ship gave another hurl. Sparks burst nearby as a terminal short-circuited. The ensign stationed there cried out but then hurried off to another station despite obvious pain. Geordi grimaced. The data flew across his screen.

“Wish I could tell you! That beam’s somehow latched onto the ship straight through the shields. Same energy pattern as before and—” He swore as the sensors spat numbers. Another jolt slammed his hip into the terminal hard enough to bruise.

“What is it?” That was the captain, sharp.

“Sir, it’s not just latching, it’s _pulling_.”

“Confirmed,” he heard Data say, via his computer-transcription workaround. “We are being moved at significant velocity.”

“Full thrusters, maximum warp, snap this link,” Captain Picard ordered. Almost the second he did so the computer blared a structural integrity warning and the Enterprise moaned as if in answer.

Fighting to keep his footing Geordi pounded codes into his display, saw the results and exclaimed, “No, don’t! Sir, we have to cut engines!”

Riker said something muffled by another heave; Geordi swore again and pumped more power into the ship’s stabilizers, but it was like trying to stop the tides with one hand. _Hull breach imminent on deck seven,_ the computer warned.

“Captain, cut the engines,” Geordi yelled.

“We do that and we’ll be pulled wherever this thing is taking us,” Riker yelled back.

“ _Don’t_ do that and we’ll be torn in two! The engines aren’t strong enough to break out of the level of power I’m reading – the warp core can’t take the strain!” New lights flashed, the warp plasma’s cooling safeties breaking down, but Geordi didn’t need the warning signals; the imagery coming off the core through his VISOR was spiking brutally and threatening to flood the room. What killed you first in a core breach, the radiation or the extreme heat or the toxic gases or the force of the blast? That had been a question on some Academy exam, no doubt.

He grabbed the nearest living body and shoved the man toward the master systems display. “Get those backups online!”

 _Hull breach imminent on deck seven. Warp core pressure exceeds maximum_ _tolerance_ _levels_ _. Core overload in three minutes._

“Captain, if we don’t take off this pressure _now_ we’re going to lose the core!”

Captain Picard said coolly, as only he could be in a crisis, “Ensign, full stop.”

Geordi heaved a sigh of relief, but there was no time for celebration. With the ship engines at full stop the tremendous tension eased, and with it the metal-wrenching noise of a ship about to come apart at the seams, but the lights were still flashing, the overloaded terminal was still sparking and smoking, the core safeties were still about to fail and the hull was still breached in multiple places, force fields all that stood between the Enterprise’s innards and the void. Through the open comlink he heard the captain ordering the affected decks evacuated, and – _and_ _the ship was still moving_.

“This can’t be right,” he groaned, but even without the data he could feel it was from the jitters underfoot: milder now but still there. “Captain, are you seeing this up there? Are we really going—”

“Warp one, confirmed,” said Data’s computer voice.

“Engines are _down_ ,” Geordi said. “We are not moving under our own power here.”

Riker said in disbelief, “Something’s pulling us at warp one? After holding us still while we were going full speed? The entire ship? What could possibly pull that off?”

“And where is it taking us?” the captain added.

“That’s one question answered. This energy pattern’s been some kind of tractor beam all along. But I’ve never seen a tractor beam capable of this level of...and one not blocked by the shields? Captain, that shouldn’t be possible. Even the kind of beam we’ve seen the Borg use drains the shields for a full lock!”

“Can you trace it, Commander? Figure out where exactly it’s coming from so we can stop it?”

“I can try to probe back along the energy beam—”

 _Warning. Warp core safety_ _protocols failing._

_“Shit.”_

_“_ What’s going on down there, Geordi?”

“We took a lot of damage down here, the warp core’s about to overheat and trigger a matter/antimatter rupture.”

“Can you repair it?”

“Already on it,” he said, hauling out a repair kit from its shelf as the rest of his team swarmed the affected panels. “But until it’s fixed it can’t take an ounce of strain. No engines, no deflector pulses – hell, if you could dim the lights I’d appreciate it.” He motioned for a lieutenant to take over at his panel, glanced at the latest numbers, added, “I’m gonna have someone stand ready to eject the core just in case, and in the meantime I’m cutting power to all systems beyond the essentials. We ignite that warp plasma and we won’t have time to regret it.”

“Understood. Maintain shield strength and life support.”

“I’ll try, but we might all have to start holding our breath.”

He heard Riker mutter, “Not like the shields did much good. And in the meantime, what, we just let this thing haul us along? Data, any guesses on our trajectory?”

Data went into his calculations and explanations; Geordi just then was easing open a circuit panel so badly overheated the panel lid itself had fused into the circuitry. Ahead of him the warp core’s glow was misleadingly steady – the energy spikes were lesser but still there in his VISOR. He glanced around. He was closest now; in event of a meltdown he'd be able to get his people out but probably not himself. _Perks of being chief engineer,_ he thought, and turned back to wrench open the panel.

“At this rate,” Worf interjected, “we will be out of the star system entirely in under ten minutes. The Gorkon is following us but has had no success in interfering with the energy beam.”

“Tell them to keep their distance,” Captain Picard ordered. “The last thing we need is two ships out of control.”

Geordi was trying to follow the conversation with one ear and listen for warp core stutters with the other. He aimed a laser cutter into the mess of the safety controls, then with a frustrated snarl dropped the instrument and stuck both hands into the hot, melted guts. Sometimes you just had to get into the thing and yank. “Core safeties coming online,” someone called.

“I want this beam cut off,” Captain Picard said. “I’m not prepared to sight-see. Suggestions?”

“Captain,” Data said after a pause, “it is perhaps less accurate to say the shields are not able to block the beam and more accurate to say the beam is not designed to interact with the shields. Therefore it must be designed to interact with the ship in some other way. If we run a...”

The computer sounded a warning in Engineering. Geordi, who was out of hands, kicked at a converter node and the lights dimmed briefly. Up on the bridge Data’s computer voice cut out, to be replaced with Data’s actual voice, saying something that sounded like “spaghetti nelo Velara peck.”

“ _Commander_.”

“Sorry, almost had a power surge down here,” Geordi called. “I think I know what he was about to say, though.” He gestured for a crewman to take his place fighting fused cables, then ran back to the master systems display. Wiping his grimy hands on his grimy uniform, he called up an image of the Enterprise and said into the comm channel, “If we can figure out exactly where the beam is latching onto the ship, we might be able to disrupt it. I can compare our energy signature to the weird one it’s giving off and see where they meet—”

“Make it so. What’s happening with the core?”

He glanced behind him. The crewman said, “Safety backups have engaged, sir. Core temperature is stabilizing.”

“Good. Keep working on the mains – Ensign Becket, go get those burned palms looked at.” Turning back to the console he told the bridge crew, “We’ve got things under control for now but we’re looking at massive repairs. We do _not_ want that kind of pressure happening again.”

“Can your team handle the situation down there? Since our computerized Data translator has fallen silent, I’d like the Human one up on the bridge.”

“Got it,” Geordi said, and moved to close the comlink, but before he could a new voice came over – Admiral Nechayev’s.

“Commander, where is the drone?”

“In my quarters. Why? Admiral, there is no way in hell he could be doing any of this. It’s an attack from outside – look out the window!”

“We’ll speak about this on the bridge,” she said, and cut the connection.

The scene outside Engineering was as chaotic as the scene inside; deck plating had collapsed, screens were flickering, lights were out, members of the crew were scurrying around in the near-dark, turned to eerie burnt outlines when the red-alerts flashed. The computer was still spewing warnings every other minute. And out of every window that sickly green as the beam dragged an entire starship at warp speed.

He noticed almost none of it. His mind was on other things. For the admiral to accuse Hugh, mid-disaster! When he’d been with them the entire time! For her to _be_ here, and see the situation, and still…!

And…

And for no one on the bridge to argue her point when she made it. Because no one had. He jumped over a fallen snarl of cables and sped up.

*

The bridge had taken heavy damage too, Geordi saw when he arrived. Data’s terminal was dark and sparking much like the one back in Engineering, so the senior staff (and Nechayev) were gathered around one behind Worf’s. At the helm an ensign sat helpless, the engines off but the stars still flying past the viewscreen. Riker spotted him as he stepped off the turbolift and motioned him over.

“Data’s been running the scan you suggested,” he said. “Looks like the beam’s grabbing onto the metal of the hull itself.”

Geordi got a glance at the numbers and whistled. “Good thing this is a tractor beam and not a weapon. It’s just completely unaffected by the shields.”

The captain said, “Can you counteract it?”

“I think so. Data, bring up the beam’s energy frequency. OK, stop me if you disagree—”

“Bilana Balduck yew-cheen system.out.printlnh1{em}.”

“—but I’m pretty sure I can disrupt the beam’s grip by magnetizing the hull plating. It’s attaching itself to the specific makeup of the ship, so changing that makeup, even on a surface level, should be enough to break it off.”

“Should be,” Riker echoed. Geordi pointed at a line of bad news.

“Look, this thing is powerful. Even if our warp core wasn’t on the brink of collapse I don’t think the Enterprise is capable of dispersing the actual beam. Not without targeting the source itself, wherever _that_ is. Our best shot is making ourselves too slippery a target.”

Picard turned to Worf. “And there’s still no sign of the source?”

“No sir,” Worf said, obviously frustrated. “We have pushed long-range sensors to their limit, and still there is nothing. The energy field extends completely out of this part of the Alpha Quadrant.”

“One hell of a tractor beam,” Riker said. “Not sure I want to know what’s capable of making it.”

“I disagree,” said Admiral Nechayev, and Geordi jumped. For a lovely second he’d forgotten she was there. But then she went silent again. It was a good thing, considering the tendencies of prior admirals to interfere with ship’s business over Captain Picard’s irked objections, but it’d be a _better_ thing if she just left the bridge and sat down somewhere, as far as the ship’s chief engineer was concerned.

Picard looked out at the stars whipping by and frowned. “How long will the magnetizing take?”

Geordi said, “Just a few minutes, but we don’t have a lot of power to spare right now. Not until the core repairs are done and that could take days. I can give you 10, maybe 15 minutes.”

“Other options?”

“Could move the civilians into the saucer section but I’m not sure we’d be able to separate the ship like this,” Riker said. Data shook his head.

Geordi added, “Our own transporters will also be blocked by the interference. No way to beam out to the Gorkon, especially not at this speed. Escape pods might get through...”

“Well, we’ll hope it doesn’t come to that,” Captain Picard said. “Magnetize the hull.”

Geordi nodded, joined Data at the terminal. It was a two-man job but he didn’t need to be able to understand the android to trust his coding.

Riker said, “Ten to 15 minutes...and then what?”

“The energy source has always vanished after making contact,” Worf said. “Fifteen minutes may be all we need.”

“Until it comes back in a day stronger than ever,” Geordi said, only half-listening to himself. “Every time it’s reappeared it’s adapted...”

Conversation stopped. It felt like the entire known universe went silent. He looked up.

“Yes,” said Admiral Nechayev, calm and cold as glacial water. “I find that very interesting.”

“You do?” he said slowly, watching her. His fingers stilled. Under his hands the terminal rumbled as the ship dragged along.

The captain said heavily, “The admiral noticed something while you were stabilizing the core. The beam’s energy signature...”

“Doesn’t look anything like the Borg tractor beams we’ve seen.”

“Not on the surface,” she said. “But call up comparisons and sift through to the base level and you’ll see a very familiar pattern in the way the Borg adapt with how this beam has adapted. Each time different, in only small ways, but exactly the ways needed to be a successful threat.”

Geordi made no move to call up the data. Data gently brushed his frozen fingers off the computer screen and began coding for two.

“The pattern is quite similar,” Captain Picard said. He sounded damned unwilling, but still he said it. “There was no way for us to see it until we’d had enough sustained encounters to have the information to compare.”

“But this isn’t a Borg weapon,” Geordi said. Why was no one agreeing with him? Why wasn’t Data – _built_ to recognize patterns, to see through the bias of a human brain – backing him up?

“It’s not a weapon we recognize,” said Captain Picard – _and wouldn’t_ you _recognize it?!_ an ugly part of Geordi wanted to scream. His rational mind thankfully overruled, sent the bitter monster back down below. But thinking rationally meant thinking like an engineer, and thinking like an engineer reminded him of all the data comparisons he’d already done. Was there really no pattern there? Was it only that there was no pattern he wanted to see? Data _was_ built to recognize bias, and Data wasn’t arguing the admiral’s theory at all…

He stared forlornly at his friend, who made a sympathetic sort of smile in return. _Sure wish you knew how to lie_ , he thought.

“Who knows what new technology the Borg have assimilated since we fought them?” Riker said. “At the core the adaptation routine is the same. That’s the key.”

“OK, say it is a Borg weapon – for what? The Borg show up in cubes, give their resistance spiel and start, start strip-mining! This doesn’t fit their MO at all.”

“Unless we are being taken to a cube right now,” said Worf darkly. “Away from allies, helpless to break free.”

Geordi bristled. “I didn’t say anything about us being _helpless_. But I guess if the admiral’s _convinced_ everyone who the problem is...”

Fortunately for Geordi Riker straightened up from his default lean against the terminal a second before Nechayev could demote him. “No one’s accusing anyone of anything,” he said. “If this is a Borg weapon, maybe it’s the hive coming after Hugh. We always knew that was a risk.”

“But I modified our shields! We’re cutting off his transceivers. They shouldn’t have any idea he’s here. And before you ask,” he added with a glare the VISOR only sort of hid, “there haven’t been any suspect communications the regular ways either.”

Nechayev was still very calm. “The captain showed me those modifications. I agree they seem thorough, for what little we know of how drone transceivers work. The obvious course is to ask the drone, assuming he’s been honest with us so far. And that is no small assumption.”

He steamed. At his side Data said, “When the walls fell.” Geordi threw the screen a glance and said dully, “He means the hull magnetization’s ready.”

“Make it so,” said the captain.

“Brace,” Riker called. Data hit a button, there was a low hum, the green light on the viewscreen flickered and then folded back on itself, section by section like a controlled demolition, all the way back along the line until it was gone from sight. The Enterprise went from being pulled at warp one to a hard brake – it wasn’t the roughest stop they’d ever had but it still sent people lurching and grabbing at walls. Geordi’s secret wish to see the admiral go sprawling was not granted.

“At full stop, sir,” the ensign said.

“Take us back to our original coordinates, full impulse - the engines will have to bear it,” the captain said to Geordi's protest. “Admiral, we should contact Starfleet immediately. The Gorkon may also be at risk.”

“Doubtful,” she said. “It appears to be targeting the Enterprise specifically.”

“Nevertheless. Number One, get repair crews going. Worf, Data, the moment you see the slightest hint of that beam’s returning I want to know – and Data, try to get your translation assist back up, will you? We may only have 15 minutes to prepare. Geordi...”

“I’ll get back down to Engineering,” he said.

But Captain Picard said, “Look at the pattern comparisons first.” He said it gently, which made it worse.

Then Worf said, “Captain, sensors indicate there is a nebula nearby that contains significant levels of ion particles.”

The unruffled engineer controlling a very ruffled Geordi pointed out, “That level of ionic interference would be more than enough to scramble _our_ tractor beams. Could buy us some time.”

Riker sighed, “Until the beam adapts again.”

“Recommend we enter the nebula,” Worf pressed.

“Agreed. Ensign, engage.”

“Hiding from the Borg in a nebula,” the admiral mused. “Your record logs show you tried this once.”

It was, Geordi thought, a particularly nasty thing to say, and Riker’s expression suggested he agreed. The captain ignored it.

Nechayev cast her eye over the hectic bridge. “You are to be commended, Captain,” she said. “Your crew preforms admirably in a crisis.”

“Indeed,” said the captain. “And, Admiral-...” He turned to face her fully, but he had to know the rest of them were listening in. “If this _is_ the Borg – if they are targeting the Enterprise, coming to reclaim Hugh – I intend to defend him.”

“If this is the Borg, we are _all_ in a lot of trouble, Captain,” she replied. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.”

“An undeniable part of the job description,” he said almost cheerfully, as though he hadn’t been captured and assimilated the last time they’d faced off against the Collective. From his position at the computer terminal Geordi shook his head. No, he could never captain the Enterprise – he really wasn’t brave enough.

Admiral Nechayev said—

The green light rushed back and slammed full-bore into the ship. This time Nechayev did lose her balance, not that Geordi could savor it as he hit the ground hard, his VISOR and thus his vision going askew. Alarms blared again. Geordi heaved himself up by one hand, head ringing, and entered a command to cut engines just as a power surge came up through the helm and knocked the ensign out of her chair. Inexplicably the same surge kicked new life into the ops station, and Data ran to salvage it.

“Beam has adapted to the magnetization,” Geordi yelled over the din. “I’m going to send out a different electromagnetic pulse!”

This time the green light flickered but didn’t fade. The ship was motionless but groaning again. The warp core readings made him dizzy. “We haven’t broken free,” he said, “it’s adapting almost as fast as I can change pulse frequencies.”

“ _Borg_ ,” said the admiral, grabbing at the wall.

Riker and the captain had both gotten themselves in their bridge chairs (although the captain had simply pulled himself along upright while Riker had done an inadvertent flip that just happened to work out for him). The captain said, “Widen the field. Keep the beam away from the ship.”

“Ushaan,” nodded Data, and Geordi watched the warp core readouts get even worse. The tractor beam bashed into the magnetic field like waves on a rocky shore, but the bubble around the Enterprise held. The readouts promised that wouldn’t last long.

“We’ve got 10 minutes max before either the field goes or the warp core does,” he said.

Then three things happened at the same time:

Data’s station beeped, his eyes widened and he let out a long stream of jabber Geordi was still too dazed to figure out; Worf said in disbelief, “Captain – unauthorized launch sequence started in main shuttlebay!”; and Counselor Troi’s urgent voice called over the comms, “Geordi, I need you at your quarters right away. Hugh is gone!”

*

A ceiling beam had come down right outside Geordi’s quarters, over the heads of the two security officers stationed there. One man was sprawled awkwardly underneath it, dead and open-eyed; the other was sitting against the wall, bleeding and pale. Troi was kneeling by him when Geordi rushed up. The door to his living room was stuck open by debris, revealing Hugh’s adapter dangling half off the wall.

Troi shot him a worried look. “I was helping to evacuate the deck below and I felt this _fear_ ,” she said. “From Hugh. I thought he was hurt.”

The surviving security member whispered, “It was right after the first shake. The beam fell – Burke was – I was trying to pull him out and the drone just...just _left_. I told him he had to stay in the room, I tried to stop him...”

Geordi breathed, “Did you fire your phaser?”

“No, I – my hands were full – Burke was _dying_...” The man let his head hit the wall. “It was like we weren’t even there,” he said to no one. “He completely ignored us.”

“He was frightened,” Troi said again. “Not of the ship coming apart. There was guilt there, self-loathing. Geordi, why would he feel guilty?”

As if in answer, his combadge clicked and voices fell over each other. Worf: “Sensors confirm one humanoid lifeform in the shuttle. It is Borg.”

Riker: “Data’s trying to override the shuttle launch sequence but if he can’t—”

Captain Picard: “Commander La Forge, get down there and stop him.”

The computer: _Warning, warp core approaching maximum tolerance levels._

Riker again: “We’ll have to shut down that magnetic field soon. Data! Buy us every second you can!”

Admiral Nechayev: “It’s alerted the Borg to our location and now that they have us in their grip it’s returning to the hive.”

Riker: “The overrides won’t hold. If the shuttle makes it past the beam—”

Admiral Nechayev: “If the shuttle escapes you are to fire on it.”

Captain Picard: “Admiral, there might be another way—”

Admiral Nechayev, with a harsh finality: “There is no other way! Your gross sentimentality gave this drone free access to the Enterprise and now it is going back to the Collective with all that it’s learned. You’ve done enough damage, Captain! Lieutenant Worf! If that shuttle escapes the ship you are to shoot it down! Lock phasers!”

Geordi clicked his combadge off and ran.

*

The doors to the main shuttlebay were wrenched open, the person usually stationed at the controls nowhere in sight. The shuttle nearest the entrance was already in its prelaunch sequence. The shuttlebay’s hanger door was still shut but Geordi knew the launch sequence, knew there were only a few moments before it opened and the room depressurized.

He tried to reach the controls and hit a force field head on. It was a stronger frequency than those usually used on the Enterprise, the energy signature an off color in his VISOR, and it stunned him for half a second.

“ _Hugh_ ,” he screamed over the grumble of the shuttle’s engines.

His combadge clicked on again. He hardly heard it.

The captain’s voice was strained. “We aren’t able to override the launch from here. Can you do it?”

“Sir, I can’t get to the launch controls. He’s put up some kind of force field. I’ll have to cut power to the deck...”

“No time. Geordi, get out of there before the hanger door opens.”

“But Hugh is going to…!”

“With luck he won’t be able to get out of the magnetized bubble and past the beam.”

“Without luck we’ll kill him!” His mind raced. He turned in a haphazard circle, spotted an access panel on his side of the force field. A panel that connected to the transporter room next door. The computer was already counting down the final launch sequence. No time to get past the force field and shut it off. No time. No time! _What did he have time for_?

“Commander, evacuate that room, that is an order!”

“Sir, there’s an access panel – I think I can rig it so it connects to the transporter—”

“Absolutely not, the door is opening, I want you out of that—”

Geordi yanked his combadge off and threw it. He only had a few seconds, and even if the panel did what he wanted it wouldn’t transport him farther than across the room – but across the room was all he needed – it was a simple matter of making the panel read his location as a transporter dock – no one at controls to modulate the flow, no one to keep track of his energy signature, no one to pull him back if things went wrong – no time to run next door – funny how the admiral, the captain, how all of them to one degree or another saw Hugh as a threat, when all Geordi could see in that moment was Hugh in his room listening to jazz, head cocked, eye wide with wonder – he heard the grind of the bay door opening and felt the first gust of raw space, unbearably icy, taking all the air with it – it was a simple one-second matter – in one second Geordi was going to be ripped out of the ship – one second and one switch flipped and one agonizing embrace of unawareness in a blue haze…

He was inside the shuttle. The hanger door was opening, the room fully depressurized. Hugh was at the controls.

“ _What_ ,” Geordi bellowed. Hugh ripped around. Geordi didn’t need Troi to tell him that look on his face was terror.

“ _Geordi_? You should not be here! You must go!”

“My thoughts exactly! What are you doing? Where are you _going_?”

“Our fault,” the former drone muttered, frenetic. “Our fault. Responsibility. Geordi must go now. Must!”

Geordi said hotly, “I’ll go when you go. Will you please just come on—”

But Hugh had already activated the autolaunch sequence. The shuttle rose and flew. The Enterprise fell away around them and was replaced by green-tinged darkness.

Geordi stumbled, grabbed onto the back of Hugh’s seat. “Move! Let me get to the controls!”

“You must go back! Geordi must go back!”

“Hugh must get out of that damn chair!”

“No! No!”

The shuttle hit the beam.

*

On the bridge of the Enterprise Captain Picard was in a rage. “You will not fire on that shuttle, Lieutenant Worf!”

“No sir!”

Nechayev snarled, “I gave you an order. Your reluctance to combat the Borg is _noted_.”

“I’m disobeying your order. My chief engineer is on that ship. I have no intention of killing him nor seeing him die!”

The admiral was struck speechless. Riker leaned toward ops and said urgently, “Can we get a transporter lock on the shuttle?”

Data shook his head. _“_ Interference,” he said, though he said it in ancient Benzite.

“Then can we beam them out? When it hits that tractor beam—”

“Hitting it now,” Worf said. Picard leaned toward the viewscreen as if to pull the craft back with his bare hands.

The shuttle was engulfed by the beam. The green light flickered. Data rose half out of his seat, both hands flat on his damaged console screen, a look in his eyes that couldn’t be described. The light flickered again.

The light vanished.

For a struck-dumb moment the bridge crew watched the shuttle head at slow speeds out into regular space. And then the tractor beam returned again, but whittled drastically to a thin sliver that latched onto not the Enterprise but the errant shuttle, which spun once and dragged as if caught in a riptide. The bridge crew watched the shuttle’s shields fluctuate into brief visibility. They watched the tractor beam darken and narrow.

They watched the light build into a tremendous white explosion that billowed out into fantastic shapes, and then it was not possible to watch anything more because the explosion’s shock wave careened into the Enterprise. The shields dropped. Energy surged up through the bridge consoles in a lightning wave with sparks like sea foam, slamming into Data’s hands, flinging him across the room. Then power cut off across the ship. The Enterprise spun and listed, tossing an already well-tossed crew about like so much ocean flotsam. The darkened bridge was ringed with burnt-out consoles on all sides.

Picard was first to get back on his feet. “Damage report,” he rasped.

“Shields down. Structural integrity holding. Life support holding. Ship stabilizers damaged. Warp core is offline. Emergency backups coming up,” Worf said as lights flickered on. Riker pulled himself back into his chair, landing with a heavy thump. Admiral Nechayev was checking in vain for life signs from the ensign at the helm. She refused to look at Picard.

Data sat up on the ramp in his slow, stiff way. He blinked and tilted his head. The cuffs of his sleeves were singed and a thin tendril of smoke rose from the back of his head.

“The shuttle,” Picard said. “What happened to the shuttle?”

“There’s no sign of it,” Worf said, and pounded a fist against his console.

Riker said slowly, “You mean it blew up?”

Worf took another look at his screen, eyes narrowing. His fist flattened out, his eyebrows rose. “I do not see evidence of an explosion,” he said. “There is no debris.”

“Vaporized,” said Nechayev. “Completely destroyed—”

“No, Admiral. I do not believe that is correct.”

Everyone turned to stare as Data rose calmly to his feet and strode to Worf’s working screen. He considered what he saw there, nodded once and looked up.

“What we saw was not an explosion, but the tractor beam in action,” he said in clear, perfect Federation Standard, still smoking faintly. “The shuttle was not destroyed.”

“Then...where is it?” Riker asked.

Data said in a steady voice: “I believe it has been taken to the source of the beam. Geordi and Hugh are gone.”

**To Be Continued...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know, I'm proud of the technobabble in this chapter. I don't know that it makes any sense but, like, whatever. Hull magnets! The ocean but in space!
> 
> My plan is to post one very short chapter in a week or so and then there will be a longer pause while I prep for Part Two, which we hit sooner than I thought we would. If this was a proper '90s Trek two-parter I'd make ya wait three months but it probably won't be that long. Probably. Get ready for some familiar faces!


	8. ---

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is patient.

_It is many miles away. It is many years ahead. It is a totality of vacancy: no planets, no moons, only the dim light of distant stars. The shuttle lists, reduced to its backup systems, its power supply rapidly draining. The tractor beam has gone. A newly absorbed technology from a newly assimilated species, many worlds distant from anywhere you have ever been. She has lost control of it only briefly. A few hours of repair. A few adaptations within the Collective. There is no rush. The Borg are rarely hurried._

_She cannot see the shuttle for herself yet. What would she see if she could?_

_*_

_Two beings, one a drone. The drone is at the front of the shuttle, by the controls. The shuttle is badly damaged. Wires flare and dangle, brushing against the wires that protrude from the drone. The drone ignores this. It eyes the displays on the consoles that still function. It knows how to read the display – all Borg know how to read this display, they have assimilated such knowledge long since – but nevertheless what it finds there is not what it expected to find. Can a drone be perplexed? Can a drone be dismayed?_

_The drone turns in its chair, which it sits in gingerly, on the edge of the seat. There are two seats but only one is filled. It turns further. It mouths a word to itself, a name, which is in itself surprising. It stands up, further dislodging wiring from the shuttle’s exposed guts. It does not care. It moves with that focus of purpose that is so essential to the Borg. Drones cannot be distracted. They cannot be reasoned with._

_It moves to the back of the cramped space, which is illuminated in sparks and the glow from cracked consoles. A bit of bulkhead has collapsed, cutting the area in two; but Borg drones are very strong and this drone maneuvers clumsily around the battered metal with no concern for the sharp, scorching surface. There is the harsh smokey tang in the air of fires burning somewhere near. Perhaps coolant is leaking, or plasma. Perhaps the air is no longer fit to breathe. The drone has not paused to think on this. It pushes past the bulkhead and sees the second being there._

_This being is not a drone. This being is a Human, male, Black, medium height, a band of metal crooked over the eyes between which a bead of blood slowly oozes its way down. The Human is on his side as if asleep, but no one would choose to sleep here. The drone kneels, in cumbersome drone fashion with its cumbersome drone body. It says the name again. It says, “Geordi.”_

_It is clear by now that this is an unusual drone. It has given itself a name and new pronouns. Very well, call it_ he _if you’d like. Pronouns are ultimately irrelevant._

_The drone prods at the Human’s shoulder, and the Human falls onto his back. A lazy, undignified movement. The man is wearing a uniform, black and yellow across the chest. But there is a red-brown patch on the yellow of the uniform now, like mud from a coppery stream. The drone watches as the man breathes, and every time the man breathes the muddy patch grows bigger. There is a smaller piece of metal lying nearby, some jagged shard off a brace or pipe, and it too drips red._

_Wounds. You see it, don’t you, how fragile individuals are. A drone can be repaired, and no great loss if not – the body degrades, the mind endures. The mind endures forever. Why would you ever resist this? All you are, all you ever have been and ever will be, reduced to lumps of mud on the floor._

_But the drone is moving again. He (and can you not see the folly of calling such a composite_ he _? She is patient, she will wait for you, but she does not suffer fools) returns quickly to the front of the shuttle. Turns again to the consoles that so puzzled him before. He pushes his knuckles to the display, extends himself (itself!) and it is a moment of pure connection, no need for the controls. He accesses the sensors, both short- and long-range. Finds nothing at first. This disturbs the drone._

_If she could see this, she would accept it as her due._

_Something happens next, though, that she could not have expected. A coincidence, which is not a concept the Collective understands. A coincidence…_

_The drone does find something. Not quite what he expected to find but something. He tilts his head, considering what he must do. Communications are out; even like this, linked to the computers, he cannot access them. If he were still part of the Collective…! Well, then the communications arrays could be adapted and refitted in the time it takes to think it. But this drone has cut himself off. Oh, the implants are all there, the pathways, the memories, but he is only one small mind now and cannot figure out how to fix the damaged parts all on his own. Small, small. Small drone in a small shuttle with nothing to show for his rebellion but a name and a Human dying in the back. Any rational drone under these conditions would simply destruct itself._

_The drone pulls himself from the computers. No communications. Transporters, perhaps. He is thinking he needs time and doesn’t have it. He is thinking many thoughts, and they frighten him: guilt, confusion, helplessness, the terrible, terrible empty rip of being alone. Oh, watch this and you will see why she so wants to help you! There is no_ end _for individuality but suffering and loss! Watch this:_

_Watch this drone clamber back over the crumpled bulkhead. The Human is where he left him, head lolling, lips paled. The breaths the Human takes are fast and shallow and the muddy patch on the uniform front has grown. The drone is still thinking terrible individual thoughts, until he reaches inside himself the way he reached into the shuttle computers and tells himself there is no time for them. Tells himself he must be Borg again. Acknowledge only the clear path of his function. All else is irrelevant and can be brushed aside._

_He kneels again at the Human’s side. Despite his rejection of them one stray individual thought does slip through:_ Geordi does not wish to be assimilated. Geordi will be mad.

_But the drone needs time to perform his function, and drones will take themselves to pieces trying to perform their functions. It is that simple. The drone has been asked recently about sacrifice and whether he would be willing to make one; he kneels here now in this broken shuttle by this broken man and knows he has his answer. Will he sacrifice this? He will not._

_He says something. She isn’t able to witness this and so she will never know what it is he says. Perhaps some bit of pathetic piety, the result of individuality spreading like a plague. Perhaps he only says that name again. Then he folds his left hand into a loose fist and injects his assimilation tubules into the side of the Human’s neck._


	9. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ 'We’re not Romulans,' Janeway said. 'You know, I miss the Romulans.'  
> 'Indeed,' said Tuvok, who did not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back earlier than intended because this is something to focus on that is not the Eternal Hell Election! Yay?
> 
> A note on timeline as the story shifts to Voyager mode (see tag updates) - for Voyager especially I've totally blown off canon, because this story is set at the end of season 7 and the writers for the end of season 7 had lost their minds. Think of this as an Endgame replacement, if you will. Neelix is still here because unlike the actual paid show staff I didn't forget the 6.5-season-long life lesson of "found family is important! Home is where your loved ones are!" Miral is here because I do love Tom and B'Elanna having a kid but I don't love B'Elanna being sidelined by childbirth for half the damn finale. Seven/Chakotay is not here because first of all wat second of all if Star Trek: Picard taught us anything it's that Seven is at her best when wearing comfortable clothing on dates with ladies. Also I'm J/C trash, although that will be a side ship at best in this fic. 
> 
> I think that's everything! Enjoy and Stay Strong

_Chapter Seven_

_(in which Hugh trusts in the Federation)_

It was the greatest threat of her time.

She’d raided Borg cubes, been brainwashed by Hirogen hunters, scammed her way through Devore territory, climbed out of rifts in reality and chaotic space, fooled and negotiated with and fired on and fallen in love with any number of rogue holograms and AI, stared down Species 8472 and even made peace with them. She’d kept her ship and crew together when sometimes it felt like the entire universe was dedicated to tearing them apart. But finally, _finally_ , Kathryn Janeway, captain of the USS Voyager, sole representative of the Federation in the inhospitable Delta Quadrant for seven strange and wonderful and _long_ years, had met her defeat.

The replicator had ruined her coffee again.

“ _I_ tried to fix you,” she told it. “ _B’Elanna_ tried to fix you. _Harry_ tried to fix you. I’m not asking for anything special or complex. Just one cup of hot black coffee. Can’t you do that? For me? After all the time we’ve spent together?”

The replicator beeped and produced a second cub of undrinkable cold sludge. There was the faint aftertaste of carbonized pot roast.

“You _can’t_ still be mad about the pot roast,” she protested. “I made that three days ago!”

The door to her quarters chimed. “Come in,” she sighed, and her first officer appeared in the entryway.

“More replicator problems?” Chakotay asked, amused. Janeway wrinkled her nose at him. She was only half in uniform, in regulation pants and undershirt with her jacket thrown across a chair, and normally protocol frowned on a captain handling ship’s business so disheveled, but this was Chakotay. The two of them had left that protocol approximately sixty thousand light years back. About the time he’d built her that bathtub…

But she wasn’t going to think about that.

“This thing’s possessed, it hates me and it wants me to starve to death. You know what that is, Chakotay?”

“First contact with sentient replicator technology? Starfleet will be thrilled.”

“It’s _mutiny_ ,” she said with feeling. “Tell Tuvok to put it in the brig.”

“I’ll get right on that. But first I wanted to check with you about that comet. If we go much further we’ll be out of its orbit.”

Janeway sloshed her insult to caffeine around some. “I don’t know. Three days isn’t so long to wait, and we could always use the dilithium, but does it feel to you like we’re always waiting? A couple days here, couple days there...”

“An interesting scientific phenomenon over there...”

“Point taken,” said the former science officer. “But I have to admit I’m getting restless. We’ve had four good calm weeks of smooth flying, and you know our luck never holds that long.” She dropped the coffee mug back into the replicator slot as a lost cause. “What do you think?”

Chakotay said, “Both Seven’s astrometrics charts and Neelix’s sources say this region gets pretty desolate. May be a while before we have another chance to stock up.”

“All right. We’ll pause in a few hours and wait for it, but let’s not sit around twiddling our thumbs. Tell B’Elanna if there’s any tinkering she wants to do with the warp core, now’s the time.”

“Will do.” He paused by her door. “And maybe if we’re lucky the comet will change course and you’ll have an excuse to fire a torpedo at it.”

“I’m not saying I want to fire _torpedoes_.” She followed him out of her quarters, grabbing her jacket and shrugging it on as she went. In the hallway she slowed to button up the collar, then threw him a grin. “Maybe just one phaser blast...”

“I’ll pencil it in. Heading for the bridge?”

“After you.”

After seven years the trek from her quarters to her captain’s chair was a familiar one. The people they passed in the halls as they went were familiar. All the various background noises of her ship came to her as though she’d been hearing them all her life; she wouldn’t have been able to describe half of them if asked but on shore leaves she noticed they were gone.

For seven years, her home. And for seven years the most familiar face of all was that of the first officer at her side.

Janeway cast him a fond glance. There were many unexpected bits of good fortune that had come from their inadvertent exile to the Delta Quadrant, but none meant as much to her as the chance to get to know Chakotay, as a friend instead of a Maquis rebel. He was a guarantee, solid and steady and calm. In the midst of the worst crisis he looked at her with those dark knowing eyes and not only did he believe she could get them out of it but he made her believe she could as well. He was security, he was trust, he was certainty that they really would get home one day. Also he had very broad shoulders.

But she wasn’t going to think about that either.

The bridge was its usual bustling self, Tuvok and Harry Kim and Tom Paris at their stations. Harry and Tom were mid-discussion of the latest amazing thing Tom and B’Elanna’s newborn daughter had done. Apparently Tom wanted to take Miral out for a spin in the Delta Flyer - “I’m telling you, she’s a born speed demon, she’s got that look in her eyes” - but B’Elanna firmly refused to allow this with the reasoning that the look in her eyes was probably gas. Now Tom was thinking of building a mock-up of the Flyer in the holodeck, and Harry thought that was a great idea. Tuvok was by all appearances not listening to either of them, although Janeway knew perfectly well that was a lie.

She waved off Tuvok’s attempt at the “captain on the bridge” spiel (he’d never let that go even if it did take them 75 years to get home) and settled into her seat just as Tom realized Miral might be more entertained by the Captain Photon program. “With or without the accidental war versus trapped photonic life?” Harry asked, and Tom thought about it a moment.

“With,” he decided at last. “Hey, she is part Klingon.”

Janeway leaned back in her chair and caught Chakotay’s eye. She was determined not to laugh before he did.

He murmured, “Didn’t we used to have a guy at the helm who spent all his time talking about picking up women? Tom Paris, I think his name was?”

“I like this version better. More suiting. You know, I don’t think he’s joking when he says he wants a family of ten.”

“And I don’t think B’Elanna’s joking when she says she’ll murder him after three.”

Janeway did laugh then, but distractedly, caught up in thoughts of Miral. With her, and Naomi Wildman, and Icheb, and Lieutenant Rabinowitz in exobiology who was just starting to show...the captain had always called Voyager a family, and it was becoming more true every day. She looked around at the bridge, seeing it as if for the first time, everything shiny and fresh out of dry-dock, and herself shiny and fresh too, her hair long and tightly fixed, her uniform spotless, her heart in her mouth with anticipation. _Who could ever have imagined?_ she thought.

Then Harry said, “Picking something up on short-range scanners,” and her reverie was done.

“Confirmed,” Tuvok said from his station. “It appears to be a small vessel, most likely a shuttle of some type.”

“A shuttle?” Janeway blinked. “All the way out here?” She twisted in her seat to look at Harry. “Are we near any ships or inhabited planets?”

“No ma’am, nothing for hours. We’re still a little too far for details...”

“Coming into range now,” Tom said. “Whatever it is, it’s dead in the water. We’re lucky we didn’t run it over.”

She turned back to look out the viewscreen, where the mystery vessel wasn’t yet visible. “Someone lost something,” she said, thoughtful.

Chakotay checked his display panel. “Could just be space junk. Broken tech hauled over the side.”

“Could be. But I’d hate to zoom past if it turns out someone took a wrong turn and needs directions. Any more information yet, Harry?”

“According to this...” He hit a few buttons on his controls. Then he froze. “Whah...this can’t be right.”

Chakotay and Janeway exchanged another, less mirthful glance. “What do you have, Harry?” the first officer asked.

“Sir, this – I’m sorry, there’s got to be something wrong with my display, or the sensors. According to this that shuttle is _Federation_.”

“Feder—” Janeway went stiff on the edge of her seat. Beside her Chakotay’s fingers flew over his panel again, and then from behind them Tuvok cleared his throat.

“Confirmed,” he said again, in that mildly surprised tone that was a gasp of awe for Vulcans. “Sensors are reading a Starfleet shuttlecraft, serial number 24701-D. It is heavily damaged. Weapons systems and shields are offline.”

“Wrong turn is right,” Tom said. Janeway heard herself tell him to come to a full stop ahead of the shuttle but her actual self was doing somersaults on the roof.

“Did _we_ lose something?” Chakotay asked, but Tuvok shook his head.

“All Voyager shuttlecraft are accounted for,” he said. “As well, Voyager does not possess that type of shuttle.”

“Yeah, because that model’s something like ten years old,” Tom said. “How did old Starfleet gear end up all the way out here?”

“Caretaker?” Harry suggested, half-hearted.

Janeway turned back to him, said urgently, “Harry, check for life signs.”

“Trying...there’s some kind of weird radioactive residue around the hull, having trouble getting a clear look. Let me try adjusting for...OK, reading two life signs.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. A Federation shuttle must have come from a Federation ship – sent to look for them? Sent to show them the way home?

Harry’s face showed he was thinking the same thing. He said joyfully, “One life sign is Human!” Then he winced. “It’s faint though, and fading fast.”

“Tuvok, see if you can get a lock, direct transport to Sickbay.”

“The transporters are also having trouble cutting through the radiation.”

“Keep at it.”

Tom looked at the rest of the bridge crew. “Were they attacked?”

“Unclear.”

Harry was still fighting with the sensors. “Second life sign...” he said as the data trickled in, “not Human, it’s...”

He paled. “Captain, second life sign reading as Borg.”

The bridge fairly exploded. Janeway rocketed to her feet. “Red alert, shields to maximum,” she barked. “Tom, get ready to jump to warp. Are there any Borg ships near us? Cubes, spheres, triangles, anything!”

“Nothing for twenty light years at least, in any direction,” Harry said.

“Keep scanning. If we’re near one of their transwarp conduits they could pop up in a minute. And hail the shuttle.”

“No response!”

“Captain, if the shuttle has lost shields and weapons it may also have lost communications,” Tuvok pointed out.

Tom heaved a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, or the Borg’s too busy assimilating to say hello.”

“Just one drone?” Chakotay wondered.

“OK, so it’s ambitious.”

Janeway stormed toward tactical. “I want the Human out of there. Tuvok, what’s the status on our transporters?”

“Still attempting to—”

There was a faint susurrus like digging with a metal shovel through heavy sand. It seemed to leach out from the walls. Tuvok’s left eyebrow shot up, as close to saying “oh, fuck” as he ever came. “Someone in the shuttle is using their own transporter to cut through our shields. They are attempting to beam on board.”

“Compensate!” she said. “Modulate the frequency.”

Tuvok nodded, but even as he entered the commands his jaw set. “Shields have been disrupted. Intruder alert on deck 11, section 9.”

“Tuvok!” she said, putting all her orders into his name, and then without waiting as he directed his security teams she ran for the turbolift. She knew he’d be right after.

*

There was a security detail twenty strong and bearing compression rifles by the time Captain Janeway made it there. She snagged a phaser off someone’s belt as she pushed through, secretly wishing she had a giant gun of her own. Tuvok was just behind her; he’d saved them both time by recommending the captain return to the bridge while the captain was bolting away from it, rather than waiting till they arrived on deck 11. Having duly noted and ignored his recommendation Janeway cut through to the front of the crowd, everyone around her but Tuvok tense to the point of outright dread. Thank God for Tuvok.

Janeway stepped out and aimed her phaser, set to kill.

The drone was kneeling by an unconscious Human in a bloodied operations uniform and eyepiece. Both of them looked battered, the Human especially so. Janeway’s eyes fell on the drone’s hand, pressed up against the man’s neck; as she watched it withdrew its assimilation tubules with a nauseating little pop of suction. The drone rose jerkily to its feet and seemed to take notice of the crowd for the first time.

“Not one step or I’ll fire,” she said, and looking back she’d never be able to figure out why she’d bothered – you didn’t negotiate with Borg drones, you shot at them. They weren’t capable of listening.

But this drone _did_ listen. At least it tilted its head as if it heard. Then it looked harder at her, or rather, at the Starfleet pips along her neck. It ignored everything – her phaser, the nest of rifles, the red-alerts screaming, Tuvok shoving himself between her and it – ignored everything and everyone until it was close to her but some instinct stilled her trigger finger and then it said:

“Captain! Federation starship!”

It pointed behind itself at the unconscious officer. “Federation captain will repair!” it said. One of its eyes was blocked by a holographic prosthesis, but the organic one was reddened and wide. “I do not know how! Comply!”

There was absolute, agonized silence in the hall. Dozens waited for the order to fire. Slowly, Janeway lifted her free hand to her combadge. Licked dry lips. Said, “Janeway to the Doctor.”

The drone had already ceased to pay attention to her. It went back to the Human and stood staring down at him, a makeshift shadow rimmed with exoplating, alone in the throng.

*

Voyager had seen a lot of long, chaotic briefings; what followed was one of the longest and most chaotic.

Harry was convinced a Starfleet ship sent to rescue them had been attacked and assimilated. Chakotay pointed out they’d heard nothing of any rescue plans from Starfleet via the Pathfinder relay. Neelix asked if he should stop by Sickbay and say hello to the newcomers. Janeway said his current orders were to find her a drinkable pot of coffee, black, _not_ leola root, or she’d turn _herself_ over to the Borg. Tuvok said logic dictated that a drone using singular pronouns must have somehow managed to sever its link to the Collective. B’Elanna said she didn’t give a damn what pronouns it used, there were dozens of witnesses including the captain who’d seen it trying to assimilate the officer. They should be keeping it in the brig under six layers of force fields – maybe seven if she could get a seventh one to fit, she added with a glare. Harry said the officer hadn’t actually been assimilated. B’Elanna said she was truly devastated to hear it had performance issues. Tom wanted to know how another member of Starfleet had ended up in the middle of the Delta Quadrant in a dinky dated shuttle; never mind the Borg, the shuttle was what really made no sense. Tuvok noted the officer’s uniform was also of an older variant. B’Elanna said she was pretty sure she could fit eight layers of force fields, actually. Seven didn’t say a thing, just sat there and watched the rest of them with a tightened jaw.

Then the Doctor chimed in over the comms and said he’d found the officer’s medical data in the Starfleet database and could Captain Janeway please come to Sickbay right away.

As she pushed back her chair Harry asked if the Borg ever just misread their star charts and got lost. Seven broke her silence to call it an idiotic question.

Janeway told Tom to start going over the shuttle and made her escape.

When she reached Sickbay – guarded now, two security officers stationed outside around the clock – she found the Doctor humming to himself as he waved a medical tricorder over the prone officer on a biobed. Beyond that bed the top half of the room had been blocked off by a force field around the surgical bay, and the drone stood behind it, as close as it could get without being zapped, practically mashing its face into the energy flow. Its intent gaze followed the Doctor’s every movement. She looked it up and down without comment.

It ignored her. She debated trying to talk to it and then decided to leave it alone for the moment – a distracted drone was better than a drone determined to say hi.

The Doctor glanced up and saw her. “Ah, Captain,” he said. “You’ll be happy to know my ‘repair’ is proving quite successful. Although I don’t much appreciate the audience.”

“You’ve got an ID?” asked Janeway, who knew the Doctor loved an audience.

“In detail.” He added with his customary touch of sarcasm, “Our drone friend’s clammed up but there’s no hiding from Starfleet Medical. See for yourself.” He nodded at his computer terminal and Janeway walked over, already dreading whatever she was about to read. Four calm, smooth weeks? She shouldn’t have spoken so openly in front of that damn replicator.

The Doctor narrated as she read, mostly to hear himself talk. “Mister John Doe is one Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge.”

“That sounds so familiar...” She narrowed her eyes at the next line of text. “Of course! I should have realized from the VISOR.”

“Ingenious technology. Although it’s a little out of date by now. He really should consider a nice set of cybernetic eyes.”

“I think we might have enough cybernetics on our hands for the moment. La Forge! But how...”

“I don’t know the name myself,” the Doctor hinted badly. She drummed her fingers on the screen, thinking furiously.

“He was one of Starfleet’s star engineers,” she said. “Never met him, but you can’t step foot in an engine room without seeing some of his work. Chief engineer on board the Enterprise under Picard.”

“Ah, yes, the legendary Enterprise. Remarkably late to bring in the holographic emergency medical system, oddly enough.” The Doctor hummed another few notes, tapped into his tricorder, then paused to consider. “I note the _was_.”

“Disappeared about ten years ago, from what I remember. Some sort of shuttle accident...” She frowned, scrolling up and down in the directory. “Doesn’t look like there’s much here _about_ that accident.”

“Someone in Starfleet forgot to fill out a log,” the Doctor said dryly.

Janeway quirked an eyebrow. “OK. So La Forge vanishes ten years ago in some mysterious event no one in Starfleet wants to talk about. Fair enough. But how the hell did he wind up here? Oh, damn, this is going to be another temporal paradox, isn’t it.”

“You’ll be able to ask him yourself. He should be coming around any moment.”

“He’s stable?” she asked. Behind her the doors to Sickbay slid open and Tuvok entered. He wore a phaser on his hip.

“Quite stable,” the Doctor said. “Not to say it wasn’t a bit dicey for a while there. Severe internal hemorrhage, broken ribs, multiple-organ failure...nothing that isn’t curable, if you get to it in time. Luckily he bought me some.” And he nodded at the drone, which only leaned into the force field and watched.

“The drone did? How? Wait, don’t tell me – nanoprobes.”

“Precisely. A messier field-medicine version of the nanoprobe transfers we’ve had from Seven. Not as effective, mind you, far too low and untargeted a dosage, another ten minutes and the commander would have been a slightly robotic corpse. But as I’m fully capable of staunching something as minor as intestinal ruptures and uncontrolled bleeding—”

Tuvok said, “Perhaps you should consider teaching a class at Borg medical school.”

The Doctor narrowed his eyes. “Very funny.”

“It was not meant to be. Vulcans do not joke.”

“In that case I won’t laugh.” He scooped up his tray of implements and went off with what could only be described as a flounce. Janeway went over to La Forge’s bedside. _Just what we need,_ she thought, smiling slightly. _Another Starfleet visitor to the Delta Quadrant._

But this was only stalling. Janeway straightened up, traded her smile for cool calculation. She caught Tuvok’s eye, and then they both approached the force field, the security chief a step behind. The Borg focused on her only when she stepped in between it and the bed, blocking La Forge from its line of sight. They stared at each other.

Janeway never quite knew what she felt when she looked at the Borg. Disgust, certainly. Fear, no doubt. Pity, somewhere underneath. Strong emotions that were nevertheless hard to hold onto, to notice at all past the base layer of rage. _How dare you destroy so many worlds, so many families? How dare you not even notice?_ But what was clearer to her was what she felt when she looked at Seven. Thought about the woman Seven was, the child she had been. Thought about what had been lost, and what was being clawed back inch by agonized inch. What might never be reclaimed. Annika Hansen.

The Borg en mass were a swarm of locusts, a mudslide. You did what you could to stop them and moved on. The Borg in singular was a tragedy – something Janeway was determined to put right.

“So which are you?” she murmured.

This drone certainly didn’t look liberated. But it’d been on board for hours and hadn’t said a word about assimilation. And the way it had been standing here, tense, unresponsive, zeroed in on the Doctor at work…

She said at last, in a clipped manner, “I’m Captain Janeway of the Federation starship Voyager. Can you understand me?”

A beat. Then a nod, short and sharp.

“I’d like to know how you ended up in a shuttle with a Starfleet officer. Where your own ship is.”

“Irrelevant,” said the drone. It tried to look past her. “Geordi is damaged.”

“...He’ll be all right.”

“Geordi is not damaged?”

“How do you know him? What were you doing on that shuttle? If you’re so concerned about him now why were you trying to assimilate him?”

“Geordi and Hugh are friends,” said the drone.

“The Doctor says you weren’t trying to assimilate him,” she pressed.

No response.

“He says you injected him with just enough nanoprobes to help save him. That’s very unusual behavior for the Borg.”

No response.

She said softly, “But you aren’t part of the Collective any more, are you? You’re an individual.”

“Geordi and Hugh are friends,” it repeated, and it had a vocal implant but its voice wavered anyway, and somewhere underneath all that cyborg junk it looked young and lost and scared, and if it kept leaning into the force field like that it was going to set itself on fire, and something in Janeway’s chest snapped clean.

She said, “Tuvok, let’s drop this force field.”

“Captain, I would not advise...”

“It’s all right. And tell the guards outside they can go.” She smiled slightly at the drone. It didn’t smile back. “We’ve had some dealings with the Collective along the way,” she said. “I’ve got a pretty good sense of when they’re a threat. And right now, I don’t think you’re one. Am I wrong?”

It didn’t say anything, not that she’d expected it to, but the way it held eye contact was answer enough. Tuvok regarded them both, clearly saw it for the lost cause it was and went to the console to cut the force field. But he kept his hand on his phaser once it was down.

No need. The drone – Hugh? – went right for La Forge, as Janeway had suspected it – he – might. He stood close to the biobed and looked down, and then did nothing. Just watched.

Janeway and Tuvok glanced at each other. “Not quite ‘resistance is futile,’” she commented.

Then La Forge stirred, with a long, low groan. The drone’s eyes were laser-fixed as his own flickered open, the pupils cloudy and unfocused, lights flickering from small neural implants on either side of his head. Gazing blindly ceiling-ward, he said: “Ow.”

Janeway took a step toward him. He said in a groggy voice, “Doctor Crusher, please tell me that’s you.”

“You’re half right,” the Doctor said from across the room.

La Forge stiffened and reached a hand out, patting around with twisted lips and increasing discomfort. Janeway, realizing, grabbed his VISOR off a nearby tray. “Here,” she said, pushing it into his hand. He relaxed the second his fingers closed around the metal. He slipped the device on, winced as it connected, looked in her direction and frowned, obviously not recognizing her, obviously confused. But when he tried to sit up his face creased with pain. “Take it easy,” she said, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder until he fell back onto his elbows. “You’re safe. You’re on the Federation starship Voyager.”

“Voyager...” He furrowed his brow, then shook his head and ran a hand against his face, massaging what must have been a vicious headache. “Ugh. Sorry. Don’t recognize it. How...”

“We were hoping you could tell us. We found you and…and Hugh in a crippled shuttle.”

“Right, we were—” He jerked back to a sitting position despite the pain, saw the drone standing there and only then exhaled. “ _Hugh_. You’re here. I don’t know what the hell you were trying to...but you’re all right?”

“Irrelevant,” Hugh said in a small voice.

“We’ve talked about you overusing the i-word.” The officer slipped into an easy smile, as if all the rest of it mattered less. Any doubts Janeway had about dropping the force field died ignominious deaths.

“Geordi has adapted? He is, you are repaired?”

“Not sure I feel repaired. _Ugh_.”

The Doctor popped up, medical tricorder in hand, to say, “Oh, he’s fine. Just some bruising. You, on the other hand, are down one scapula node and overdue for regeneration.”

Hugh reacted as Seven would have reacted, which was to say he ignored the Doctor entirely. La Forge gave him a suspicious look but put up with the scanning. Janeway tried to talk around him.

“Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge, is that right? Enterprise chief engineer? I’m Captain Kathryn Janeway. This is my chief security officer, Lieutenant Commander Tuvok.” The two nodded at each other. “Commander, I need to know what you were doing in that shuttle. And how you got here.”

“Well, that depends...where’s here?”

Janeway said, very carefully, “Why don’t you go first.”

La Forge rubbed at his temples again. “We were...the Enterprise was under attack. Some kind of energy source that acted like a long-range tractor beam, I’ve never seen anything like it—”

“The Collective,” said Hugh.

La Forge dropped his hands. “We don’t _know_ that.”

“The Collective,” the drone repeated, with that Borgian certainty that could have been so annoying if it wasn’t so justified. Seven pulled that tone all the time and Janeway had a hell of a time arguing around it.

Unhappily La Forge said, “Captain, I know what you’re thinking but Hugh is _not_ a threat. I have no idea what attacked the ship but it wasn’t him, I don’t care what any admiral told you.”

Janeway hid a smile. “So you were under attack...”

He cast her a wary grimace, as though he didn’t trust her not to phaser Hugh over the biobed. On any other ship in the galaxy he might have been right to worry. “Hugh and I were in the shuttle – long story – and then the beam, well, I guess it went after us. After that I don’t really remember.”

Then he gasped. “The _beam._ The Enterprise! Captain, I need to contact my ship. We had heavy damage when I left. _Damn_ , how long have I been out? I need to...”

He tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. The Doctor went to push him back down - “When I said you were fine I didn’t mean you were _that_ fine. If you’ll just lie back,” - and La Forge shoved past him. Or tried to shove past him. Instead his shoulder clipped and then went through the Doctor’s. He stared.

“You’re a hologram.”

“And you’re asking for another hemorrhage. Feet back on the bed, doctor’s orders.”

La Forge gave up, settled back down, but he was radiating confusion. “Emergency medical backup?” he asked. “I didn’t think that was out of prototype testing yet.”

Janeway sighed. There was probably an easier way to break this (and after seven years you’d think she’d be able to come up with one) but they didn’t have the time. If Hugh was a runaway drone – if the Borg were after him – Voyager’s crew needed to know. Now.

“You’re not going to be able to contact your ship,” she said. “Not for about a month, anyway, and it’ll take about that long to get any answer back.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it takes a while to get information out to the Federation from where we are.”

La Forge said, with every indication of someone who did not actually want to know, “Which is where?”

Tuvok said, “The Delta Quadrant. Sector two-five-seven, to be precise, approximately 65 thousand light years from Federation space.”

Janeway said, “Oh, I think we’re a little further along than that. We’re really making excellent time.”

“The Delta Quadrant,” La Forge said flatly. “Right.”

“It is the truth,” said Tuvok. “We were brought here against our will seven years ago and have been traveling back ever since.”

“Look, if this is some kind of Romulan brainwashing trick I’ve been there done that and would rather just be summarily executed. Thanks.”

(“No,” said Hugh, with what sounded like real outrage.)

“We’re not Romulans,” Janeway said. “You know, I miss the Romulans.”

“Indeed,” said Tuvok, who did not.

“If a Starfleet ship had gotten lost in the Delta Quadrant I would have heard about it! Especially a ship as advanced as this one!” La Forge shot the Doctor a fresh glare. “There would’ve been conferences for _years_.”

“No doubt there were,” said Tuvok. La Forge’s eyebrows ended up somewhere near his hairline.

Janeway said, “Commander, there _is_ a record of your being lost, along with a shuttle, from the Enterprise. It doesn’t mention the presence of a Borg drone. That record is ten years old.”

The next twenty minutes went about as well as could be expected.

La Forge refused to believe them, and he clambered back out of bed and about trampled the Doctor until he got to the computer console to see for himself, and then he called the computer varying expletives, checked the stardate, unleashed more expletives, and then Janeway said she understood how he felt because time travel was just the _worst_ , and then he gave up because, after all, he _was_ in Starfleet. Shit happened.

“Oh well,” he moaned. “Only ten years? Better than last time. Last time was 1800s San Francisco.”

Janeway made a mental note to read _that_ report sometime. Tuvok asked how he’d gotten back to the present. “Data’s head,” he mumbled.

“Listen,” Janeway said. “I know this is a lot to take in. Time-travel nonsense never makes any sense. And I promise we’ll do what we can to get you back where you belong. But right now the best thing you can do is get some rest. That goes for you too,” she added to Hugh. La Forge had been about to lie down but he shot up again at that, much to the Doctor’s dismay.

“Captain, wait,” he said, hurriedly, like a man on the brink of disaster. “Hugh really hates the brig...”

“I’m not a big fan myself,” she said, lifting a brow.

“No, I mean – he’s Borg, he _was_ Borg, but now he’s not and he doesn’t need – _you_ don’t need to be afraid of him, he won’t hurt anyone. He’s used to security teams but the brig, he doesn’t do well there...” La Forge knotted his hands into fists. “It’s a lot to ask,” he said. “But I’m telling you as a Starfleet officer. As his friend. He’s not Borg anymore. I know it’s hard to believe but it’s the truth.”

Tuvok would have clarified, but he wouldn’t have had nearly enough fun with it. Janeway tapped her combadge before he could. “Seven,” she said, “could you swing by Sickbay?”

La Forge, uncomprehending, fumbled to silence halfway through his speech. Hugh cocked his head. Janeway smiled.

“Commander,” she said, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”


	10. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ 'You are insufficient,' Hugh said in a voice that shook."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters get a little talk-heavy but I promise there will be explosions again soon enough! Trying to keep track of who knew what about the Borg when is a nightmare, Star Trek timelines are a pit of despair, thank you to the heroes at Memory Alpha who somehow manage to untangle it all.

_Chapter Eight_

_(in which sometimes home is a moving target)_

Looking back, Geordi thought he probably hadn’t believed it, any of it, until Seven of Nine walked in. Most of her implants were gone but it only took one look to realize who she was – only took watching her stride into Sickbay like there wasn’t a force field or metal alloy in the universe that could stop her, with a steely strength that had nothing to do with her trim frame. This was a woman who could snap a Klingon targ in half.

Oh, and the metal running around her eye, across her hand, lodged beneath her ear. The metal was a good indication too.

She went to the captain’s side and took in the newcomers, arms held behind her back. Geordi shifted, uncomfortable in the stupid hospital gown that apparently hadn’t been improved any in ten years; he had never exactly been great small-talking strangers, much less small-talking strangers five minutes after coming out of a coma in the friggen _Delta Quadrant_. Although judging from the way Seven was looking at him he didn’t get the feeling she was much interested in chitchat.

But he…he wasn’t why she was here, was he? Lips parted, he swiveled to take in Hugh’s reaction. Captain Janeway was toying with her combadge, still smiling like she was proud.

Hugh and Seven stared at each other, her with reserve, him in awe. No. Not in awe. In _joy_.

“You are Borg,” he said, and the raw relief in that one sentence dented Geordi’s heart and turned his stomach. Seven nodded. Hugh said, still in that breathless voice, “You left the Collective? How? How did you come here?”

“I was removed from the Collective by the crew on Voyager,” she said evenly. Speaking obviously came a lot easier to her, but she bit off the end of each sentence like it had offended her personally.

“We gave her the opportunity. She’s done all the hard work,” Janeway said, and Seven didn’t dispute it.

Hugh jerked around a bit, and then for the first time since Geordi had come to he moved away from the side of the bed. Just a step, in Seven’s direction. “There are others?” he said.

“Not many. A few,” she allowed. Hugh didn’t smile because he hadn’t quite worked out smiling yet but, oh, you didn’t need to watch his face to see him glowing. Geordi looked down at his ugly gowned lap. More former drones! It was an unbelievable thing, a _wonderful_ thing – it _could_ be done, others had done it, Starfleet couldn’t ignore it if it had happened more than once! It was exactly what Geordi needed to convince Admiral Nechayev, assuming they were ever in the same quadrant again. But…

Had Hugh really missed being around the Borg that much?

Hugh was still digesting the news. “Your implants are gone.”

“Yes. The ones that could be removed. They were no longer required.”

“What is your designation? Your – your name?”

“Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One.” A pause. “I prefer Seven, now.”

“Third of Five,” said Hugh. “But now I am Hugh.”

Seven inclined her head in acknowledgment. “You need to regenerate. Come with me.”

“But Geordi...”

“He will require further recuperation here and your presence serves no purpose beyond that of a distraction. You must regenerate. There are alcoves in the cargo hold, I will take you there.”

This was, to look at Hugh’s reaction, a flawless argument.

“You guys have actual Borg alcoves?” Geordi brightened. “I’ve been wanting to get a better look at one! Hey, Hugh, maybe we can rig you up something back home that actually does the job, huh?”

He tried to stand, to follow them out, but his midsection protested in strongest terms. The Doctor – was this balding hologram the only medical personnel around? – came storming over. “ _Please_ stop _moving_ or I _will_ put you in _stasis_ ,” he said.

“You two go on,” said the captain, amused, as Geordi brushed the EMH off. “Commander La Forge is in good hands. Seven, if Icheb is free, introduce our guest, will you?”

Seven nodded. Hugh glanced at Geordi once (but only once) and then followed her out. It was an incongruous pair; she looked totally Human from the back, he was still mostly machine. But they both had that walk.

The door whisked shut behind them. Geordi asked, because he had _so many questions_ and this happened to be the first one to fall out, “Who’s Icheb?”

The captain and Tuvok exchanged glances. Geordi’s mouth dropped.

“Another – how many ex-Borg do you have on this ship? I really thought Hugh was the only one.”

“Ten years ago he likely would have been,” said Tuvok. “You have not attempted to remove his implants?”

“We were still trying to figure out how. He only decided to stay with us a few months ago. Few months ago my time, anyway.”

“Well, it’s obvious you’ve made excellent progress on his social skills,” Janeway said. “I think it took Seven a year to admit she liked any of us.”

“Huh. Really?”

“I suspect Hugh’s leaving the Borg was a bit less complex than Seven’s. She needed some convincing.” She patted his shoulder. “He’s in good hands with her.”

“And they can just...go anywhere? We still need security details for Hugh back home. It’s, uh, it’s been tough for some people to get used to him.”

“Oh, it was tough here too. But eventually people do adjust. And so did she. He might get a few looks, don’t get me wrong, but he’ll be safe.”

“Thanks,” Geordi said, feeling weight he hadn’t realized was there slip off his shoulders. He could almost hear the thump.

The Doctor approached again, with a tray’s worth of equipment and an air of long suffering. “Now that the meet-and-greet’s done, I’m afraid visiting hours are over,” he announced. “I do have quite a lot of tests to run.”

“Wait.” Janeway leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Commander, I need to know if Hugh was right. Was it the Borg after you?”

He sighed. “...I don’t know. It could have been,” he admitted, and just like that the weight was back. “We never _saw_ a cube – and even if they knew he was on the Enterprise I don’t know why they’d care so much about one drone, one individual...”

“They would not consider Hugh to be an individual,” said Tuvok.

“If you had seen the way this energy beam came out of nowhere, the technology it must have taken...for one drone? And then why bring us _here_? Why not just show up, assimilate the Enterprise in the Alpha Quadrant and be on their way? Not like it was so easy to hold them off the last time.”

Captain Janeway said, wryly, “That’s their thing, isn’t it? Adaptation. For a single-minded species they always find a way to surprise you.”

Tuvok said, “Recommend we go to yellow alert. If Hugh is a Borg target it is likely they will continue to search for him.”

“Agreed.” To Geordi she said, “Rest up,” she said. “When you’re feeling better we’ll start figuring out how you got from there to here, and how we can reverse it.”

“It’ll be another few hours at least,” the Doctor said, loading a hypospray. “I want to make sure the body’s adapting the nanoprobes and not the other way around. Can never be too careful with Borg tech!”

Captain Janeway grimaced. Tuvok was unmoved. Geordi said, and he really _did_ sound calm about it, almost, more or less: “What Borg tech?”

“Why, Hugh’s nanoprobes, of course,” the Doctor said, like this was normal medical practice. “They adapt the body’s cells during the assimilation process, or healing process in this case. If you’re wondering about the pain in your neck that’s the site of the—”

“Doctor,” Janeway said.

Geordi’s hand flew to the side of his neck, where there _was_ a pain, mostly lost in all the other, larger pains. In growing dismay, with a feeling like someone was scooping out his stomach acid by the handful and trying to make him drink it, he traced two round indents, fading fast. There was a taste in his mouth like he was gnawing at a metal rod, a shiver straight through to the roots of his teeth. He felt queasy. The room spun.

_Now he is a weapon who knows to call himself by name, but Captain, he is still a weapon…_

“He would never,” Geordi said, loud, angry, to convince himself more than the rest of them. It was like walking into a plasma storm and trying to convince it to change course. “He _wouldn’t_. He _knows_. I’ve told him a hundred times – he knows I’d rather _die_ than…Captain, I trust him. He’s a friend.”

But still his fingers found the indents in his neck, again and again. Still the image came to him, Captain Picard on the Enterprise viewscreen half-blocked by cybernetics, dead-eyed, rational as that plasma storm, speaking horrors in a voice that wasn’t his.

The Doctor said, “Hugh thought you were dying. You _were_ dying. He saved your life.”

The captain said, “Nanoprobes stripped of context are just another type of technology. We’ve done several of these transfers on members of the crew here, with Seven’s help. It doesn’t mean you’ve been assimilated into the Collective.”

“But what if he’d, I don’t know, gotten the dosage wrong? You’re saying I’ve got a bunch of little Borg drones in me changing my cell structure?!”

“Don’t think of them as drones, think of them as self-dissolving stitches,” the Doctor said, and got him with the hypospray while he sputtered.

*

He slept the kind of sleep that only a near-death experience could bring, deep and thick and heavy. When he woke up almost nine hours later, completely unmoored – what time was it? w _hen_ was it? why were these no longer the same question? – it was to a dry mouth and another blinding headache. Geordi spent a not insignificant chunk of his life battling headaches, beyond the aggravation they didn’t worry him much...but now there was a petty little fear below the discomfort. He couldn’t help but think of the nanoprobes as little animals, or little germs, running riot through his system, curdling blood cells, snipping at veins…

 _Stupid._ He jammed his VISOR back on, irritated at the headache and at himself for catastrophizing and at the whole damn situation. It wasn’t going to work, feeling betrayed by Hugh. It wasn’t going to be possible.

At least someone had come by while he was out and dropped off a combadge and uniform, though it was the Voyager version and not his own. The department colors had been reduced to a band across the shoulders, the undershirt was visible, and he had to admit it fit better overall. Putting it on was another story.

The Doctor saw him gritting and grunting his way through the process and had a lot of helpful things to say about muscle tears and bone bruises and inadvertent vivisections. Geordi was left with the image of himself in several pieces across the shuttle floor, held together by metallic Borg bracing. He was also left with the desire to dismantle the Doctor’s vocal subroutines.

He’d been assigned quarters, but before he could go to them there were yet more tests. The Doctor talked too much but you couldn’t say he wasn’t thorough. To keep him from sharing any more of the horrific medical details popping up on that tricorder, Geordi asked and confirmed that there really was just the hologram running Sickbay (“Plus Tom Paris when he can spare himself,” the Doctor said, “and believe it or not he _is_ more useful than he looks”). The biological team had apparently been killed in the alien hijacking that stranded the ship so far from home; without other options the crew had activated the emergency medical hologram program and left it running for seven years straight and counting. Geordi, who knew from overly active holograms and the hell it was to maintain their inner workings, was impressed. _Voyager must have a good engineering team_ , he thought.

Over those seven years, the Doctor said, he’d developed interests in opera, photography and holonovel writing. He’d invented new surgeries and techniques, several Borg-related (“Great,” said Geordi), and had even found time, once contact with Starfleet had been reestablished last year, to get into a copyright spat over what exactly defined sentience.

“Apparently the mere act of creation is not enough,” he said, a touch defensive. “Tell that to Michelangelo, tell that to Basquiat, tell that to Emily Dickinson or Sabine Wren. I may be made of photons rather than flesh and blood but I don’t see why that should...”

Geordi laughed wearily. “Doc,” he said, “my best buddy’s an ultra-advanced android who wants to be human and got himself legally declared sentient at trial. You really, really don’t need to convince me.”

“Oh! Well, in that case,” said the Doctor, brightening as he scanned.

He confirmed that Geordi was fully reattached and not about to become a drone, or even half a drone, and finally gave him permission to go. And then Hugh came back.

He traipsed in after someone else, a stout man of a species Geordi didn’t recognize with spots and orange whiskers and distinct clothing choices. “Hello there!” the newcomer said cheerfully. “Captain says I’m to show you your quarters, but I popped in to say hi to Hugh here and when he heard I was going to see you he insisted on coming with.” The alien held out a hand. “I’m Neelix, ship moral officer, ambassador and chef. Hugh was _very_ firm on shaking hands.”

“It is polite,” said Hugh. “Geordi says.”

So Geordi and Neelix shook hands.

“I’m sorry you’ve had such a chaotic entrance, but I think you’ll like it here,” Neelix told him. “Captain Janeway runs a fine ship.”

“I’m sure it’s fine, I’m just...a little disoriented.”

“Of course you are! Time travel, galaxy-hopping, you Starfleet types sure know how to get into trouble. Not to worry. You’re among friends.”

“Friends,” said Hugh.

“That’s right! Why, Hugh – with Seven and Icheb here it’s almost like you’re among family.” Neelix’s eyes glistened. “Oh, I love family reunions.”

Hugh looked bewildered. “Family?”

“The three of you used to be Borg, right? One mind, one voice, ultimate comradery. Why, for all we know you used to work together, share all the juicy Borg gossip. Although if you’ve jumped forward in time ten years then Icheb would have been very young...” He puzzled on it. Hugh turned back to Geordi.

“There are Borg alcoves,” he said. “They are satisfactory. Seven of Nine was Human like Geordi but her designation is Seven of Nine. Icheb was also Borg but before that he was Brunali and Icheb is his Brunali name. Species 2467,” he added.

“Good to know,” Geordi said. He tried to say it lightly but Hugh heard the uncomfortable edge there and peered at him as if the data off his eye implant could explain it.

“Well!” said Neelix. “Shall we?”

They stepped out into the hallway. From the inside Voyager looked as bustling as any Starfleet ship, but apparently Starfleet was a lifetime away. Neelix took them down three corridors and past a turbolift. Geordi glanced at the wall panels as they went and was relieved to find they looked mostly the same – some aesthetic differences but nothing bizarre. And Captain Janeway was right: Hugh did attract a few looks, most of them more resigned than shocked, and no one stopped them or ran away. _Exactly how often has this ship_ _seen_ _the Borg?_ Geordi wondered.

“Here we are!” Neelix stopped in front of a door like any other. “Now, you’re next to Ensign Jahnna. She’s a lovely person but she does have a tendency to oversleep her alarms, and the walls on Voyager are a little...”

“Thin? Tell me about it.”

“I guess it’s an enduring problem.” Neelix hit the entry button and the doors opened to reveal a set of rooms not unlike the ones Geordi had left back on the Enterprise. Small bedroom off a small living room, all done in beige and cream, with the bathroom and sonic shower to the right. The view out the one large window could mislead you into thinking you hadn’t gone anywhere at all. But this wasn’t his room, and those weren’t his stars. He stepped in and looked around without seeing much of it.

He did note there weren’t any obvious access ports. No good spot to set up Hugh’s converter. But, then, that wasn’t an issue here, was it? Hugh had real Borg alcoves to regenerate in, and real ex-Borg to share them with.

“Well, I’ll let you get settled,” Neelix said. “Hugh, want me to take you back to the cargo bay?”

“Unnecessary,” said Hugh. “I will stay here with my friend Geordi now.”

“Alrighty. If you get hungry come to the mess hall and I’ll whip you up some leola root stew.”

“What is leola root?”

“Nectar of the gods,” Neelix promised as the doors slid shut. Then it was just Hugh and Geordi, and a lot of awkward silence.

Hugh stared. Hugh could stare for hours. Geordi fiddled with the cuffs of his new uniform.

Hugh asked, uncertain, “Geordi is damaged?”

“Angry. I think you mean angry.”

“Geordi is...angry?”

He sighed. “Nah,” he said. “Kinda want to be. Kinda should be. But nah.”

“Why does...why should you be angry?”

“Look around! We’re a million miles away from home, ten _years_ in the future, and I don’t know what’s happened to the Enterprise or what happened to us, and I don’t know _why_ we were in that shuttle! What were you doing? You could have gotten us both killed. And then...”

Unconsciously he felt the side of his neck again, where there was no sign now of the injection site. He’d studied Hugh’s assimilation tubules, seen the way they erupted from the skin and retracted back. The thought of those things in his _neck…_

Hugh was so damn observant. He saw Geordi wince and he said, “Geordi must not die. Assimilation repairs the damaged. They are given new life in the Collective.”

“Yeah, but what kind of life is that? Not one I want.”

“I did not assimilate you!” He was surprised at the way Hugh’s voice rose, the excitement in it. “I would not _wish_ to. But you were damaged. The Federation made Locutus the captain Picard again. They could make you Geordi again. Then you would be repaired.” He paced a couple steps, then burst out: “And you should not have been on the shuttle. That was not your function.”

“What was I supposed to do, let you fly off into the ether? Admiral Nechayev was ready to shoot you down!”

“Irrelevant.”

“And even if she hadn’t, you think any ship in the galaxy would stop to pick up a Borg hitchhiker? You’d have been stranded out here until you starved...or until the Collective came by for you! Which is what everyone back home thinks you _wanted_.”

“Irrelevant.”

“How is that irrelevant?” he yelled. “Your life is not irrelevant!”

“You are _insufficient_ ,” Hugh said in a voice that shook. “All of you. Your shields, your orders. ‘We’ll deal with the complications later.’ That is what the captain Picard said. But you did not. _No drone leaves the Collective._ They came and they would destroy the whole ship – Geordi, the doctor Beverly Crusher, the commander Data. You should not have allowed us to stay.”

Geordi swallowed. “What are you saying?”

“We chose wrong! Now we know what friends are – _why_ did you tell us about friends? Now we know they are in danger and we cannot allow it. So we left. They would not come for you if we _left_.”

He looked up at Geordi, his organic eye burning with fear and defiance. “This drone is one individual,” he said. “One Hugh. He injected you with nanoprobes against your wishes, and he could not stop the Collective. A bad individual. He is not worth the whole Enterprise.”

Geordi sagged down, onto the couch pressed up against the wall. The cushions were stiff, when he would have rather been able to sink up to his neck. He rubbed his mouth, dropped both hands into his lap, and said hoarsely, “That is the most individual fucking thing you’ve ever said.”

Hugh’s eye narrowed. “Explain,” he said.

“You were – you were trying to sacrifice yourself? For all of us? You really do deserve a field commission. Hugh, that urge to protect your loved ones, to make a community of your choosing and then do your damnedest to to keep it safe, that’s the best part of individuality. That’s what friendship _means_. Choosing to help others, to care about others...”

“But I did it wrong. You were damaged.”

“Oh, everyone fucks up,” Geordi said. He felt suddenly like laughing. He felt like he could hold off a Borg cube with his bare hands. “One time Data called me a lunkhead. But you _tried_. It’s just – you don’t have to sacrifice yourself in the process. We watch each other’s backs, right? If you’re in trouble, tell me so I can _help_. That’s what friends do.”

Hugh asked in a soft voice, “Geordi and Hugh are still friends?”

Geordi said solemnly back, “Geordi and Hugh are still friends.”

Hugh smiled. It was his first.

Geordi leaned back against the couch. “We really have to work on your self-worth,” he chuckled.

“Self-worth?”

“If every individual is different, then every individual is valuable. Right? In the whole galaxy there’s no one who thinks like you. And those communities you’ll form, no one else can replace them if they’re lost. That’s part of what makes the Borg so vicious. It’s theft! It leaves a hole you can’t fill. Hugh isn’t irrelevant, he’s _irreplaceable_.”

“He is...I am just one Hugh,” he said again.

“Not _just_ one. You are one! The one and only. And I’m the one and only Geordi, and together we’re the one and only Geordi-and-Hugh friendship there ever was and ever will be. In the entire universe, just us. Pretty cool, huh?”

“One and only...” Hugh sounded pensive now. “Like the commander Data? I do not think the Borg know about one and only.”

“Their loss,” he replied, and from that moment on he didn’t give the nanoprobes inside him another thought. Why the hell had he ever cared? They were only a part of Hugh, mending him. It was only Hugh, watching his back.

*

He spent a while going over a layout schematic of the ship, so when the captain called in and asked if he and Hugh could come by the conference room he was able to get the two of them there without an escort. Small point of pride to know where he was going when it felt like he knew absolutely nothing else anymore.

That didn’t mean he enjoyed the idea of walking into a room’s worth of strange senior officers. Hugh picked up on his reluctance, of course (sometimes Geordi suspected his VISOR and Hugh’s eye implant were just bouncing the same energy signals back and forth at each other) and asked about it. He shrugged: “Just not a big fan of introducing myself to a bunch of strangers who all already know each other. I think you like crowds a little more than I do.”

“Would strangers not like Geordi? Why would anyone not like Geordi?” Hugh sounded more bothered by this than he had by the threat of re-assimilation.

“That is a good question,” Geordi said.

They came into the conference room. The table was smaller, the chairs were softer, the faces around it were different, but it was a Starfleet starship conference room in all its under-decorated glory and so it wasn’t as awkward an entrance as he’d feared. Captain Janeway rose to her feet with a smile (and she smiled at Hugh, too, with none of Captain Picard’s discomfort). “I’ll introduce you,” she said.

Tuvok on her right and Seven of Nine down the table they’d already met; then there was Commander Chakotay, her first officer; Ensign Harry Kim, stationed at ops; Lieutenant Tom Paris, the helmsman; and Lieutenant B’Elanna Torres, the chief engineer. Everyone was friendly, although he and Torres did some sideways-glancing at each other. After all the lieutenant was his Voyager counterpart, and it was tradition to have running one-upmanships with your counterparts. It was all friendly competition until you accidentally burnt out the navigational controls trying to squeeze another second’s worth of speed from the engines for bragging rights.

Hugh did not offer to shake hands but you could tell he wanted to. He stood at Geordi’s shoulder and looked around. No one demanded he leave or asked how many people he’d assimilated. Hell, with Seven there he wasn’t even the most intimidating presence in the room, implants or no implants. (Although as far as Geordi was concerned Hugh was about as intimidating as a wet tribble to begin with.)

“This will be a little weird for all of us,” the captain said, “but as long as you’re on board we’re glad to have you.”

“And to put you to work,” Torres said, still sizing him up. She looked part Klingon and sounded it too. “You as good as your record says you are?”

“Probably better,” he said, and she snorted. “But who knows. With a ten-year delay I might be a little rusty.”

Paris interjected, “Aw, it’s like riding a hoverbike. You never forget.”

Janeway said lightly, “You’ll find we’re a pretty close-knit bunch.”

“That’s what happens when you live with the same people for seven years,” Paris said, grinning. “One big happy family, right, Tuvok?”

“Hm,” said Tuvok.

Hugh’s brows furrowed. “Family,” he echoed, and everyone looked at him in varying degrees of delight (Captain Janeway) and skepticism (Torres). Only Seven’s expression was unreadable.

Captain Janeway said, “I think we can all agree it’s nice to see another face from Starfleet, even if he isn’t sure how he got here. But let’s see if we can unravel the mystery.”

She gave a nod, and Chakotay from a padd at his seat called up an image of the Enterprise shuttle on the room’s main screen. Then Geordi launched into an explanation: how the Enterprise had been faced with an energy pattern that grew stronger with every reappearance; how finally it was able to latch onto the ship; how it was like nothing they’d dealt with before, totally unaffected by shields and able to adjust to all their efforts; how once they were in the shuttle it had first vanished, then latched onto the craft, and there’d been a force of energy so immense it had blown out the sensors. The shuttle had gone spiraling end over end and Geordi was unconscious by the time it settled. The captain said, “And this energy pattern is Borg?”

“That’s what he thinks,” Geordi said with a slight frown at Hugh. Then he added, however unwillingly, “That’s what everyone else thought too. But as far as we knew, Hugh was the only person ever to be pulled from the Collective. He makes a lot of people nervous and they’re seeing Borg cubes everywhere. _I’m_ just saying we don’t know what this thing is. It doesn’t fit the Borg style at all.”

“That it followed your shuttle suggests one of you was the target,” Tuvok said.

“OK, granted.”

“Went over the shuttle’s internal systems,” Paris said, “and it’s definitely showing signs of temporal displacement – that radioactive residue, for one. Tachyon-particle buildup. That’s not a Borg trick, is it?”

Everyone looked at Seven, who paused and then admitted, “Under certain circumstances the Collective is capable of creating temporal vortexes.”

The groan that followed was also Collective. Torres demanded, “Are you saying there could be time-traveling drones?”

“You’d think they’d do it more often,” Chakotay said. “Go back and assimilate the Federation before it knows to protect itself. Or jump forward to the future and take advanced tech.”

“Maybe they have and we just don’t know about it because someone stopped them,” Harry Kim said.

“Oh no,” Captain Janeway warned. “One time paradox at a time, thank you. Seven?”

Seven sounded frustrated. The implants over her eye caught the light and flashed as she spoke. “The Collective does not consider time the way you do. They are not so...”

“Linear,” Hugh said. Seven glanced at him and nodded.

“The Collective desires perfection. It consumes and adapts to achieve it. It is drawn by that object and that object alone. Where it senses the chance to add to its perfection, it goes. Past and future are meaningless.”

Paris said, “I don’t know, after everything we’ve been through I kind of feel specifically targeted.”

“OK.” The captain lifted a hand. “So we can assume this sort of tactic, however unorthodox, would be within the Borg’s capabilities. Next question is why?”

“Sorry, I’m still stuck on _how_ ,” Geordi said. “I re-modified the shields to block Hugh’s tracking signals. They shouldn’t have been able to find him.”

But this didn’t produce the puzzled looks he was expecting and hoping for. Instead the Voyager crew all glanced around at each other like no one wanted to be the one to break bad news. He watched with his heart sinking into his stomach as Janeway tapped commands and brought another diagram on screen. Hugh’s.

“This is from the Doctor, when he was checking you over, Hugh,” she said. B’Elanna Torres leaned in and took over, zooming in on the outline of Hugh’s tracking device.

“This is what you configured the shields to block, right?” she asked.

Geordi nodded, a little stiff. Hugh didn’t seem bothered by his x-ray’d insides on display for the whole room, but his friend was bothered enough for both of them. Plenty of times he’d snapped at people for gawking when he had to rummage around in Data’s processors; they were repairs on a colleague, not an invitation to a side show. Not that Data minded much, either.

“I know for a fact no homing signal was getting through,” he said.

“Probably not, but that doesn’t mean the Collective wasn’t tracing him.” She zoomed in on a different implant, in a knob at the top of Hugh’s spine. It looked spikier than he remembered from his own research. “Neural transceiver,” Torres said. “Every drone’s got one. It’s how the Collective sends out its orders. When the subspace beacon fails the transceiver adapts to signal its location to the rest of the hive. There’s also an interplexing beacon that locks onto a drone’s specific translink frequency at long distances. Borg always find a way.” She saw Geordi’s face fall and said, “Don’t beat yourself up too much. We found out the hard way too.”

But he couldn’t pull his gaze away from the sight of the node up on the screen. All the research he’d done on Hugh’s implants, all the work he’d done to protect the Enterprise, and they’d been defenseless the whole time. The promises he’d made to Captain Picard and the admiral were empty. The admiral was _right_.

Hugh was watching him. Geordi forced himself to ask, “Why didn’t you say something?”

But before Hugh could answer Seven did, in a tone that suggested he was an idiot even to question. Geordi had spent months using the same tone on people and didn’t much like finding himself on the receiving end. “Drones are designed to adapt automatically,” she said. “He may not have been aware himself. He may have chosen to believe you when you said you’d blocked his signals from the Collective. The Borg do not understand lies. Not even inadvertent ones.”

Hugh was still watching him. Geordi thought of not knowing his own body and what it could do, of modifications churning in the bones and blood, of self as automated machine. He thought again of Data. “Point taken,” he said.

The captain said, “According to the Doctor the location of the transceiver means it can’t be removed, but we deactivated that function on Seven’s, and we can do the same for Hugh. In the meantime...”

The realization jolted him half out of his chair. “In the meantime we’re putting this ship at risk just by being here! Captain, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s all right,” she said with a smile. “Unfortunately we’ve have plenty of encounters with the Borg, and we’ve snagged a little of their technology here and there. We’re as blocked off and shielded as anyone could be. As long as Hugh is on board Voyager he’s safe.”

Geordi gave a slow nod. “I really thought I’d figured out his implants,” he said.

“Oh, but you did!” And just like that the Doctor was in the room, settling himself into a chair. Were Voyager’s conference rooms all built with holoemitters?

“Sorry I’m late, Crewman Boylan walked in with a nasty bleed. That man is much too clumsy to work around the warp core, Lieutenant,” the Doctor said, much to Torres’ irritation. “But let me assure you, Commander, your research and that of Doctor Crusher’s was priceless for removing Seven’s implants. Why, yours was the first in-depth look at a drone! The implants you noted no one had ever seen before. That you were able to diagnose the implants in the brain, much less replace them, it’s a massive accomplishment. When you go back over the notes...”

“About that,” Captain Janeway interjected, with a stern lift of an eyebrow. “Geordi, I know the temptations, believe me, and the last thing I want to do is keep you in suspense about your friends. But as much as I hate to admit it we’ve got a temporal paradox here. Now I don’t pretend to understand how these damn things work – you knowing the past changes the future, you changing the future changes the past—” She made a face. “Whatever. But our goal is to get you two home and safe as quickly as possible, and until that happens, the Temporal Prime Directive requires that I order you not to...”

“Not to snoop into the past ten years,” he finished. “I understand. Not my first temporal paradox either.”

“Besides,” Tom Paris said, “anything you learned about the last ten years might be meaningless. It’ll change once you get back.”

“Or it won’t change,” Harry Kim suggested, “because you going forward and back again was already accounted for. Or—”

“The next person to talk about time travel is being demoted to cadet,” Captain Janeway threatened.

Tuvok said, “One thing is still not clear. If the Collective’s aim was to reacquire what they see as lost technology, why would they choose to attempt it in such a manner?”

“Exactly,” Geordi said. “Send a cube after us, OK, I can see that, but to drag us through space and time?”

“Perhaps the temporal vortex was unintentional, or incomplete.”

“That’s a hell of a coincidence,” Paris said. “They just happen to drop a Starfleet officer and a decommissioned drone on top of the only ship in the Delta Quadrant with both?”

“Something to do with this neural transceiver, maybe,” Geordi said. “Maybe somehow the link...”

Captain Janeway eyed Seven, and then Hugh. Her voice when she spoke was still friendly, but there was a suggestion there… “Did you have any suspicions beforehand?” she asked him. “Any…premonitions?”

Geordi said, “How could he? He was on the Enterprise with me the whole time.”

“Call it a hunch. Or experience. Hugh, you’ve been very certain this whole time it was the Borg who brought you here...I’d like to know why.”

“How could he know?” Geordi repeated. “He’s been severed from the Collective.”

“To a point,” the Doctor said. “His link’s been disrupted, yes, but as long as all those implants are in he hasn’t been fully removed. That may never be completely possible.”

“Fine, he’s been _disrupted_. He still isn’t hearing a billion voices in his head! Right, Hugh?”

“No voices,” Hugh said, but he sounded distracted. And he wasn’t looking at Geordi, he was looking at Seven of Nine. In only those few seconds eons of understanding passed between them.

Seven said, and now there was a certain gentleness in her voice too, “You must tell the captain what you saw.”

And the stubbornness in Geordi, the loyalty, the part of him that had _healed_ this man and _named_ him and _cared_ about him to point of pain, because of course Deanna was right – that part of Geordi wanted to stand up and bark, _He didn’t see anything!_ regardless of whether it was true.

But he didn’t. Because Hugh was still looking at Seven, and Geordi realized as he sat there that those two knew each other better in that instant than he would know Hugh in a million years. They had been Borg.

“Tell the captain,” Seven said.

“Dreams cannot hurt,” Hugh said, unhappy.

“That’s right,” Captain Janeway said. “But they can still be important.”

Hugh didn’t say anything. Seven did.

“You saw her?” she asked, and Hugh nodded, and another groan wound its way through the room. Torres swore. Harry Kim looked a little green.

“She said we, I chose wrong. She threatened my friend Geordi.”

The captain said, “So you decided to leave. Before she could harm him.”

Hugh gave another spasmodic nod. Janeway’s eyes softened.

“Well,” she said. “We always knew she was out there, that there was a possibility we’d have to deal with her again. I want to...”

“Hey, sorry, wait a minute.” Geordi grabbed the edge of the table and squeezed until his fingers hurt. “Can we backtrack a bit? What _she_? Who are you talking about?”

Seven pursed her lips. “The Borg Queen,” she said, and kept talking over Geordi’s bewilderment. “She is able to reach out and speak as an individual. If she is aware of Hugh then she _will_ come for him.”

“Geordi was not supposed to follow,” Hugh said quietly. “Sacrifice. Our fault.”

“Hold on, back up. As far as we knew _ten years ago_ the Borg don’t have queens. They don’t have leaders at all! The Collective? Hive mind? Remember?”

“She is not a leader,” Seven said impatiently. “She does not control the Borg, nor is she truly an individual. It would be more accurate to say she is controlled by the Collective. She is an expression of order. A concept. The Borg’s way of directing billions of voices as one.”

“And she’s just...there? All the time? What happens if she dies? You’re telling me there’s a Borg line of succession?”

“No. I told you, the Collective does not consider time the way you do. Death is irrelevant. As long as the Borg exist, she exists. Until the goal of ultimate perfection is obtained.”

“And you’re saying this, this queen who isn’t a queen and doesn’t control the Collective but still controls the Collective – you’re saying she’s been harassing Hugh in his dreams? Threatening _me_?”

Torres muttered, “Crazy, isn’t it? Welcome to the Delta Quadrant.”

Geordi did indeed feel like he was going crazy. Hit back and front with all this nightmarish intel (intel the rest of them were just nodding along to like it was normal), all he could muster in response was another limp, “Hugh, why didn’t you _say_ something…?”

“That seems to be something of a Borg tendency,” the captain said, over Seven’s level stare. “We ran into similar complications with the Borg Queen dropping by. You weren’t too eager to tell us, either, were you, Seven?”

“In the Collective drones do not need to share information,” she said. “It’s known already.”

“Oh, it’s more than that. You were trying to protect us.”

“More like you didn’t trust us to save our own skins,” Torres said.

Seven said, “To a drone you are inefficient. It is...difficult to trust in the abilities of others. Especially concerning the Borg.”

“I don’t know,” Torres said with a thin smile, “I think we handled her pretty well, don’t you?”

Geordi got the sense this was not the first time they’d had this argument. Then Janeway’s first officer leaned forward in his chair.

“Glad we’re all caught up, but we’ve still got a huge problem on our hands,” Chakotay said. “We’ve gone up against the Borg Queen twice and both times barely escaped without our own neural transceivers. It looks to me like she’s making a move against Hugh and Seven. Why else bring him here?”

Captain Janeway said, “I want to know what she’s scheming. Hugh, if there’s anything else you can tell us, anything else she’s said...”

“I will tell you,” Hugh said. “There is nothing. But I will say.”

“That’s all I ask. _Well_.” The captain rose to her feet. “Tuvok, let’s start security drills, you know the ones, and tactical run-throughs. Harry, I need you monitoring _everything_ – if there’s a molecule out of place somewhere we need to find it. Tom, Chakotay, keep going over that shuttle. Maybe it can clue us in to where she is and what she’s up to.”

“Always happy to dip my hands into radioactive residue,” Paris said.

“Seven, Hugh...you two are the best line of defense we have against the Borg. You know how they think. Well, I want to know _what_ they’re thinking. I hope you don’t mind, Hugh, if I put you to work?”

“Don’t mind.”

“Good. And, Doctor, see about his implants. Let’s assume despite all our efforts they’re tracking us and prep for the worst. B’Elanna, we’ll need to Borg-proof everything, shields, weapons, power supplies. Safe to assume they’ve already adapted to last time’s methods, so find me some new ones. For starters I’d love to know how Hugh pulled off that little transporter trick of his. Geordi, I know these aren’t your systems but I’m sure your help would be invaluable.”

“Of course,” he said.

The captain strode to the front of the room and stood in front of the windows, twisting her fingers together. She wasn’t a tall woman but she exuded that Starfleet captain’s aura and spoke with her hands: all the air in the room was centered where she was.

“I won’t lie to you,” she said. “This isn’t what I was hoping for when I woke up this morning. Chakotay’s right, we’ve been brought into this on purpose. But we’ve battled the Borg before, and we’ve won. We know it can be done – and we have two extra faces now who’ll make it that much easier. The Borg Queen doesn’t understand that others besides the Collective can team up, add their strength, without losing who they are. That’s her undoing, right there. In fact, I think this could be an opportunity to fend her off once and for all. If we can _adapt before she does_...maybe she’ll finally realize it’ll take more than a hive mind and some implants to bring down the Federation.”

She looked at Geordi. “One thing to know about me, Commander, Hugh...I don’t surrender my crew. And as long as you’re on this ship, you’re my crew. Both of you.” She smiled. “Tom was right, this is a family. And I like our odds better than hers. So. Dismissed.”

“Guess I should postpone taking Miral out in the Flyer,” Tom Paris sighed.


	11. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " 'The captain can sometimes be quite pragmatic,' Seven said. 'She saw the capabilities of the Collective far outmatched the Federation’s technological abilities.'
> 
> "Hugh wondered, 'But she does not want to be assimilated?'
> 
> "Seven said, 'She is not that pragmatic.' "

_Chapter Nine_

_(in which we consider lost and found families)_

And again, among Borg. Still there were no voices, but they were there.

Hugh followed Seven of Nine to the regeneration alcoves in the cargo bay, where the technology waited for him along the back wall with a familiar endless thrum. Seven of Nine and Icheb (once Second of Five) acted as individuals and spoke as individuals and no longer had most of their exterior cybernetics, but they were Borg. They were like Hugh.

“Hello,” said Icheb, who wore not exoplating but a lumpy sweater in green. Seven stood behind him, stiff, arms at her back, watching them. Hugh could tell she was very efficient.

But Icheb puzzled him. “You are not fully matured,” he said. “Why are you not in a maturation chamber?”

“Icheb’s cube was damaged,” Seven said. “The maturation chambers malfunctioned and the adult drones were dead.”

“Voyager found me,” Icheb said. “They found kids, too, but returned them to their homes.”

“You are going home also?”

“I’m going to the Alpha Quadrant, we all are.”

“My friend Geordi is from the Alpha Quadrant. It is his home. He found me there.”

“Are you going to stay with him, then? When we get there?”

Hugh hesitated. It had been the wrong choice, to stay. Hadn’t it?

Seven spoke sternly to them both. “You should not waste time with frivolous conversation. You must regenerate.”

Icheb said, “You’re just mad because the Doctor is always telling you to make _frivolous conversation_ , and you aren’t very good at it.”

Seven did not look pleased. Hugh offered, “I make conversation with Geordi,” but this did not seem to help.

“Regenerate,” she ordered. It made sense to comply.

Hugh stepped up into one of the alcoves. Unlike the adapter on Enterprise, the alcove was big enough to enfold him. The green scanner overhead whirred into action with a series of clicks. He felt the heat of it, and the weight. On his right Seven stepped into another alcove, as did Icheb on his left. This was not a Borg cube, but it felt like—

“Voyager is a good place,” Icheb said, closing his eyes. “I think you’ll be happy here.”

“Home,” said Hugh, as the energy washed him away.

*

Later, he met the individual Neelix. Talaxian. Species 218. Neelix returned him to his friend Geordi, who was repaired. To know this was – Hugh did not have the words for what this was, this repair. This _healing_. Geordi had bled very much on the shuttle. If he had died, his voice would not have been kept in any Collective. Hugh would never have heard him again. His would be one small voice, one small being, consumed and forgotten as though it had no meaning. _Lonely_. How could Hugh be an individual without Geordi? He did not, did not, did _not_ have the words. But Neelix had many words, and that was acceptable.

Neelix took Geordi and Hugh to new quarters and left. Then Geordi was very upset, about the shuttle, about the nanoprobes. Hugh could not explain, and he was frustrated because he could not explain. Why did he always have to explain? Why could Geordi not connect with him as drones connected, and in that way understand? But then, if he did, he would not be Geordi anymore. It was very confusing. And it was bad to know his friend was displeased with him. It was worse still because Hugh could not apologize, as he’d heard other individuals do. He did not feel apologetic.

It was scary and very hard to call Geordi insufficient. It also was not accurate, at least not completely. What he meant was, _You are not Borg, and I am_. What he meant was, _They are coming and they will hurt you._ What he meant was, _What if you bring me to this strange place I don’t remember and then leave me behind? How could you? How dare you?_

Geordi raised his voice and then dropped it. He said Hugh must let him help. Hugh did not understand what this meant, exactly. But he understood that Geordi was worried for him, and he was worried for Geordi, too. Perhaps this was a part of being friends.

There was a meeting on Voyager, full of new voices. Geordi said things like, _Why didn’t you say something_ , and, _What do you mean there is a Borg Queen_. But he said Geordi and Hugh were still friends, and the Voyager captain Janeway said she would help them stop the Collective. Hugh had what he understood to be doubts.

After the meeting he went back to the cargo bay with his friend Geordi, who studied the alcoves, whistling and pushing buttons. “This is _impressive_ ,” he said. “Hugh, this connection is a thousand times more exact, you must have spent the last four months half-starved. I’m really sorry.”

Icheb who had been Second of Five came into the room then. Hugh said, “This is Icheb. He is not fully matured. This is my friend Geordi.” They did not shake hands but still he felt he had made very good introductions. This was important because without introductions no one would know who anyone was, without the Collective to tell them. It was very important for people to know about Geordi.

Geordi said, “Um, hey.”

Icheb said, “I _am_ mature, actually.” This was not accurate but Icheb had been an individual longer than Hugh and individuals were often inaccurate.

“I’m even a Starfleet cadet now,” Icheb said.

“Starfleet, huh?” Geordi said. “Impressive. I guess ten years softened Admiral Nechayev, right, Hugh?”

“Admiral Nechayev wanted to study us,” Hugh explained. “Me. Us?”

“Right the second time,” Geordi said. “Hey, Icheb, do you happen to have a tricorder lying around? I’ve got to know what energy frequency this thing runs on…”

So Geordi was happy again. And Hugh was, too.

Seven of Nine’s voice came over the communications system. “Icheb, you are late for your shift. Report to Astrometrics at once.”

“She runs a tight ship,” Geordi said. Icheb left. Geordi looked up to the ceiling then and spread out his arms and did a very odd thing: he laughed. Hugh cocked his head.

“Why does Geordi laugh?”

“We’re ten years and a million miles from home and I am _surrounded_ by former Borg,” he said, still looking at the ceiling though he dropped his arms. It was like before in his quarters, the things he said, but he said them differently now. With more light. “And they have duty shifts in Astrometrics and want to join Starfleet. Hugh, this is wild.”

“Wild is...good?”

“Wild is wild.” He grinned. “One thing about this job, you’re never bored.”

Boredom was an individual trait. Hugh had yet to experience it.

Later, Geordi went to see Voyager’s Engineering and Hugh went to see Astrometrics with Seven of Nine. This made sense – this was how Borg ships operated, every drone to its function, on and on. She showed him the wide room and inside it the scanner systems, the star charts, the holographic interfaces and databases and workstations. Some of it was familiar, because it used Borg technology. Seven had introduced these advantages herself, to build the lab, for Voyager had not had one to start. “The captain can sometimes be quite pragmatic,” Seven said. “She saw the capabilities of the Collective far outmatched the Federation’s technological abilities.”

Hugh wondered, “But she does not want to be assimilated?”

Seven said, “She is not that pragmatic.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You should not talk about assimilation. You are an individual now, you must adapt yourself to that role.”

“I must adapt to...frivolous conversation?” Secretly he was proud (he knew about _proud_ ); if his friend Geordi was there to hear him teasing he would be proud too. Seven of Nine was less proud.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she said. “The members of this crew have a startling need to talk, usually about things that are unimportant. You will get used to it. I recommend spending time with Lieutenant Commander Tuvok, he is more capable of controlling himself than the others. However if you wish to avoid needless banter you must also avoid Neelix and Lieutenant Tom Paris. For Neelix I believe idle conversation is a common quality of his species.” Her tone dried, and it had already been very dry. “Lieutenant Paris is just poorly evolved.”

“But voices are good,” said Hugh. “Less lonely. On Enterprise I go to Ten Forward and there is music and many people listen to it and talk after. And there are Samarian Sunsets, but I have not had one yet.”

“I don’t enjoy crowds,” she said.

He was surprised. Borg, and not to like crowds? She saw his surprise and said sharply, “I am no longer part of the Collective. My opinions are my own.” Then she softened. “As are yours, when you form them.”

He nodded. “My opinion is voices are good. But they are hard. Hard to...make. To say.”

“It will get easier. This is the mainframe for the Pathfinder relay. Without it we would be unable to communicate with Starfleet, so it is vital that you learn how it works.”

She showed Hugh many things that day, but it was not hard. She was Borg and so was he. Though they could not hear each other’s thoughts, could not adapt to one another instantaneously, they were still diligent and thorough. They performed their functions well.

As they were leaving, Hugh thought of something else. Thoughts were like that, slippery, the way they popped into your head of a whim. “The captain Janeway and the Talaxian Neelix and the lieutenant Paris said, _family_ ,” he recalled. “We don’t, I don’t know about family. Is it like friends?”

Seven hesitated. Hugh thought perhaps she wouldn’t answer at all. Had he said the wrong thing again, or said the right thing wrong? It was _hard_ , to know what to say. There were so many options, so many words, and yet so often none of the words were what he wanted.

She said at last, “It is a type of Collective. And it is very important to Captain Janeway.”

But that was all she said.

Seven of Nine (and it was good, her designation, it was simple, it was complete, but still he asked her, did she not wish to have a name? She told him bluntly that she had been given one as a child and it no longer suited her as _Seven_ did) had other duties to perform. She suggested Hugh go to Engineering, where his friend Geordi was. But after she brought him there to the doors and left, he did not go inside. This was unusual and even difficult for him – it was always better to be with Geordi – but he had seen something on the way. He had seen a mess hall like Ten Forward.

Inside the Voyager mess hall there was no music and fewer tables and chairs, but it was busy as Ten Forward had been. Against one side of the room was a line of nutritional items, and behind them was an area called a _kitchen_. Much clattering and smoke came from there. Individuals were clustered around the tables; he looked and saw familiar ones. He went to them.

“...this rate we’ll end up the first cube in Starfleet,” the lieutenant B’Elanna Torres was saying, as she poked at a plate of nutrition in front of her with her fork. “We’re turning into a shelter for wayward Borg.”

The lieutenant Tom Paris was sitting next to her. He had an infant on his lap, _very_ small, _very_ immature. Hugh had never been around anything so small; his function as Third of Five did not involve the maturation chambers. “Is Miral gonna free all the Borg?” Paris asked her. “Is she? Miral, rebel queen of the Borg?”

“The Queen’s a _metaphor,_ remember?” the lieutenant Torres sighed. “Or whatever.”

“Sorry, far as I’m concerned it’s not a metaphor if it can turn you into a drone.”

“Can we do less drone talk in front of her? Before her first word is _assimilate_?”

Then the infant Miral saw Hugh. She babbled. This meant that other individuals could also have trouble verbalizing, and it was a relief for Hugh to know. He wondered what she thought of all the words she couldn’t say.

The others were now looking at Hugh also, startled and uncomfortable. He was used to these reactions. “Uh...if you’re looking for La Forge he went back to his quarters,” the lieutenant Torres said. She saw he was watching the infant and tapped her fork loudly against the plate.

“Yes,” said Hugh. He did not move.

“...Ooor,” said the lieutenant Paris, “you could hang out here for a bit. C’mon, pull up a chair.” Torres made a face at him. He said, “Just trying to be friendly to the new guy. Besides, look, Miral likes him.”

“The infant cannot be Queen,” Hugh said as he sat, slow and careful not to snag himself on anything. He saw the lieutenant Torres watching him with alert, sympathetic eyes. She seemed especially concerned with the tubing that wrapped around his head and dipped into his cheek. Individuals often were bothered by this, although he did not know why. “It must be Borg to be Queen, and it is not matured.”

“Well then,” Torres said. “Glad to know, thanks for sharing.”

“Too bad,” said Paris, bouncing the infant on his knee. “I always wanted to be the father of royalty.”

Hugh concentrated. It was hard without his friend Geordi to help, but harder still to be alone with silence and no others. If he talked here, maybe people would talk back.

“That is your subunit?”

Torres said, “This is our _child_ , yeah. You and Seven are definitely related.”

“Related?”

“You know,” said Paris. “Parents, children, siblings. Family.”

Family! That word again.

“So what’s it like, being away from the Borg?” Paris said. “No regrets, I hope?”

“No regrets,” he echoed. This seemed the right thing to say. Even the lieutenant Torres stopped banging her plate with her fork. “Frivolous conversation,” Hugh said, pleased.

The lieutenant Paris looked confused. “Sorry, don’t follow.”

“Seven of Nine dislikes frivolous conversation. She says you make it because you are poorly evolved.”

“ _Poorly evolved_?” the lieutenant Paris said, very loudly. The lieutenant Torres snorted into her food.

“I disagree because we are not one mind anymore,” Hugh explained. “I think it is good.”

Torres said, “So how did you leave the hive?”

“Our ship crashed. The Enterprise found us. Then we were Third of Five but when we met Geordi he was our friend and said we did not have to be Third of Five anymore. He said I could be Hugh.”

“That’s...actually very sweet,” she said.

“Hugh is better. He is...more. Third of Five could not have friends.” Hugh saw him now, that drone, who he was – they were the same physical person, his memories were still there, but they were so different. Colorless. Never alone, but what did it mean to be together when all were one? Third of Five was data and function, stripped of voice and thought. Hugh could never imagine Geordi as Third of Five.

He was starting to have trouble imagining _himself_ as Third of Five, and that was a concern, because he still didn’t know what it meant to be Hugh, either. What if he failed? Unable to go forward, forgetting how to go back...what would become of him then? And Seven of Nine, and Icheb, and those other Borg now returned to their homes? What would become of all of them if they could not find their way?

Then the lieutenant Paris said, “No, seriously. Did Seven really say I was poorly evolved?”

“Calm down,” said Torres. “As far as Seven is concerned everyone on this ship is less evolved than a drone.”

“Not drone,” said Hugh. “I do not like it, being called that way.”

“Huh,” said Paris. “Why not?”

“It is a bad thing to be a drone. People are afraid of them.”

“If it makes you feel better, I really don’t think too many people are going to be afraid of you.”

“But they are. Because I am Borg.” And because he still thought of himself as a drone, and this did not bother him, but hearing it from others did. Somehow this was a sign he was flawed.

The subunit Miral babbled again. The lieutenant Paris said, “Well, Miral likes you, and she’s an excellent judge of character.”

Then his combadge clicked, and a stern voice came over, saying, “Mister Paris, please report to Holodeck One immediately, with your repair kit. That is an order. And bring Ensign Kim with you.”

“Sure thing, Tuvok.”

With a grin, he handed Miral to the lieutenant Torres, who took her and said, “What did you do to his program this time?”

“Absolutely nothing. False accusation. All Harry’s fault. Hugh’ll be my alibi, right?”

“Alibi?”

“Right, exactly, I was with you all afternoon, no one can prove you wrong. Remember, resistance is futile!” And he went.

“Poorly evolved,” said the lieutenant Torres with a shake of her head.

*

There was much then to puzzle over when he went to his friend Geordi’s quarters. He hit the button as he had been shown, and Geordi called, “Come in,” and he came.

Geordi was sitting on the floor, an open tool kit at his side and instruments spread out over the carpeting. “Hugh!” he said. “There you are.”

“Hello, Geordi,” he said. There was no adapter here for him to use so he went towards the couch and stood there to watch. It was good to hear new voices, but Geordi’s was still the best.

Geordi leaned back on his arms to stretch his back. “Been trying to catch up with all this new tech,” he said. “There are holographic nodes in the electro-scanners now! I _suggested_ that at the last engineering conference at Utopia Planitia, everyone said it was too impractical. And this...” He picked up a long, skinny device. “They can reconfigure their phase converters without having to open up the compartment. I burn my hands on that thing every single time.” He sighed and put the device down. “Lieutenant Torres said she has the power conversion level in her engines at 98 percent. I could never get ours past 97.2.”

“They use Borg technology.”

“Yeah, she showed me some of it. Nasty stuff, no offense. _Useful_ stuff too, but I wouldn’t want to be the guy responsible for scraping it off the hull.” Geordi considered a boxy tool with flashing red lights, then put it aside. “They’ve got these bio-neural gel packs in their computer system, an organic-electronic combination...sound familiar? I’m tempted to smuggle one back home with me.”

“Geordi wants to go back home?”

“Sure, of course I do.”

“But the technology is better here. More efficient.”

“There’s more to life than warp engines,” he laughed. “And that’s coming from a chief engineer. This ship is impressive and all, but my friends, my loved ones, everything I know is back where we came from.”

“Then you are...homesick?”

Geordi looked at him. “I guess I am,” he said. “But at least you’re here. We’re in this together.”

Hugh asked, hesitant, “Is that what it means to be family?”

“Family? Well, uh...”

“Everyone uses this word. Seven of Nine says it is like a Collective,” he added hopefully.

“Sort of. Your family is people who are like you, connected in some way. Usually by blood, you know, reproduction, genetic inheritance. My mom and dad and sister are my family, we’re related, they raised me. Families are all different, though. Some are close, some aren’t, some are huge, some are small. And sometimes you choose them, but a lot of the time they’re already waiting for you when you arrive.”

“Then...then my family is the Borg?” He looked at his prosthetic hand. “The Borg are the same as me, but I left them. So then I have no family? I am alone.”

Geordi got quickly to his feet. “Now, wait a minute,” he said. “I did say you can choose them. And honestly, not all families are healthy. Sometimes it’s better to leave the family you started with behind and replace it with a new one.”

“A new one? How?”

“Same as making friends. You find people who’ll stick with you no matter what happens, who’ll help you out, care about you. You can make families out of your friends, Hugh. Look at the people on this ship. They’re not related, they get on each other’s nerves, but they’d never abandon each other, they’re connected regardless of blood.”

“The lieutenant Torres and the lieutenant Paris have a subunit – a _child_. This is family?”

“Yep, that’s family too. There are all different kinds, and sometimes the definitions start to overlap, but all that matters is you’re happy, and loved.”

“Complicated,” Hugh decided. “I will try to adapt to this.” Again his friend Geordi laughed.

“Sometimes talking to you is a lot like talking to Data,” he said.

Hugh thought of something else. “Families have reproduction. The lieutenant Torres and the lieutenant Paris.”

“Yup. They must have met and became friendly, realized they liked each other...”

“Met and became friendly,” Hugh repeated. “Yes. Then will Hugh and Geordi reproduce a—”

“Anyway!” Geordi went very quickly to the tools and shoved one at Hugh. “Here,” he said, speaking fast, “see if you can figure out what this one does. I’m just, just gonna...” He mumbled something and went into the other room.

Hugh tilted his head. Sometimes his friend Geordi was very unpredictable.

*

But later when he was done regenerating Seven of Nine came to him and said they must start work on the captain’s orders. They went to her workstation in Astrometrics to determine if there was any evidence of the Borg changing their usual tactics. It would be noticeable if they did, she said – for the Collective changed others, not itself.

She called up information on the room’s wide display screen. “I have requested records from every warp-capable species in this sector,” she said. “This is the most recent Borg assimilation we are aware of.”

It was a recording from a colony on a small moon, made on a camera designed to automatically transmit to satellites around the colony’s homeworld of Am’Ama. The colony, the camera, even most of the satellites had been assimilated, but some of the satellites closest to the home planet had survived. This planet was a dismal one, sick with pollution and rotating around a dying star. The moon colony had been its people’s best chance of survival, and all their resources went into building it; without it they had no future, as thoroughly as if they’d been assimilated as well.

The Borg had not bothered to assimilate the homeworld.

And these hopeless people on a dying planet had responded to Seven of Nine’s request and sent her the footage. It was a matter of minutes to adapt it to Voyager’s computers. Then Seven of Nine and Hugh watched. It was his first time seeing an assimilation from the outside. It was not hers.

The camera was focused on a small city square paved in red stone. The buildings were low and domed, of the same red stone, with open doors and windows. They clustered around and on top of each other, each sprouting others, jutting at awkward angles no Humanoid could have managed. The Am’Amans were a bipedal, avian species, blue-green feathers and blue-green eyes. They could walk and fly. Some had short beaks and some had long. They mated for life, in bonded pairs. There were not many of them in the footage at first.

Seven of Nine did not know their Borg designation, nor did Hugh – the Collective had already moved on without them. It made Hugh feel...odd...to know this. Thinner. Less substantial. It made him feel odd to watch the footage of the Am’Amans moving about. He would never know them.

In the footage there was nothing much but scenes of a city slow under the heat of two suns and a purple hazed sky. The camera caught only a small sliver of that sky around the clustered buildings; its lens was turned toward the ground. Inefficient for a flight-capable species, said Seven. Hugh said maybe they thought they knew the sky.

“Then they were misguided,” Seven said, in cool tones of voice.

They watched and the Am’Aman city began to shake. The ground heaved. Chunks of red stone came loose. The camera had not transmitted sound but it was not hard to imagine. The sounds of a Borg assimilation were familiar to Hugh: the sounds of tractor beam, metal cutting metal, the sounds of exploding ships if the defenders had time to get ships in the air. Sometimes they did not. The Am’Amans had not. The colony was in a peaceful part of the quadrant and anyway it was a feast day and they were full and fat and joyful. The individual who responded from the homeworld to Seven’s outreach had told her this, accusingly, as if the upheaval was made worse by how unexpected it was. On Voyager’s viewscreen the colony shook itself almost to pieces. Architecture was not a Borg concern.

Many Am’Amans ran past now, some running, some flying. They moved all in one direction, a mob in great distress. This too Hugh could hear: when a planet was assimilated some drones would be sent to the surface for the preliminary work. They would be pleaded with, attacked, some destroyed, and they would keep coming. They would come and come and come and come. And yet they would be an infinitesimal fraction of the drones waiting above in the cube or sphere. They would say: _We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Your technology will be adapted to service us. Resistance is futile._ Even now watching weeks-old soundless footage Hugh heard the words, leaned unthinking into their rhythm.

 _Resistance is futile. Resistance is futile. Resistance is futile_.

On the screen the mob grew and grew and then dwindled, very fast. Those fleeing had by now discovered there was nowhere for them to go. There would be drones where they were running, and there would be drones behind. Again the city square, now damaged and slumping, was empty. There was a faint reflection of green light from the tractor beam as it began sucking up the structures and the tech.

Two stragglers appeared on screen. One had a long beak and the urge to fly, it was obvious from how they kept unfolding and refolding their wide wings. But they also had a tight grip on the wing of the other, who had a short beak, and that one clearly could not fly – the other wing hung limp and stunted, gray flesh visible in patches. This Am’Aman was stumbling and tired. Their mate pulled them along with claws extended along the wings.

( _They’d never abandon each other,_ _Geordi said_.)

Three others came into the square, from the opposite direction. Three drones. Wire and gear. Pinprick glowing of laser-optics in the dust cover. They moved and looked just like Hugh, for a moment he thought he saw himself. Then another shake dislodged the camera. From that moment on the footage was crooked.

Crookedly the drones advanced on the Am’Amans, who had lost their footing in the last temblor and were now pressed up against a cracking wall. Crookedly two of the drones walked right past them, disinterested in the individual. Crookedly the third drone turned towards the Am’Amans and extended a synthetic arm.

The whole Am’Aman could perhaps have flown out of reach, but they would not leave the other. Instead they charged the drone, an act of doomed defiance. Had Hugh reacted that way, once? Had he cowered? Had he hid? Was he someone else’s subunit, too young to know? “Misguided,” said Seven of Nine again, frowning at the screen.

The Am’Aman tried to snap at the drone’s head and was caught easily by the neck and wing. They struggled and struggled and then stopped, going quite still. The drone released them and moved on.

The damaged Am’Aman clacked their beak in confusion and took a step towards their mate. Reached out their claws. The gesture was ignored. The whole Am’Aman turned, but already it was not an Am’Aman at all. Full surgical implantation would be completed later, but already the feathers were falling out and the gray skin was taking on a greasy sheen and silver nodes were bursting out along the collarbones, the beak, the spine. The wings – so wide and powerful, iridescent under the suns – began to droop and come meatily away from the shoulders. The new drone looked at the bewildered, frightened, damaged Am’Aman and saw nothing of interest. It walked away.

There was another heave, and now the sounds would be building to crescendo: the squeals and screams and wresting metal, the dislocation of an entire colony, the death of one type of life, the birth of another. The camera filmed until the mound of buildings caved in and buried it in rubble. And the damaged Am’Aman stood alone in the square, until there was no square, until there was no Am’Aman, until there was no camera to film. Then the footage ceased.

It had taken one hour six minutes two seconds, from beginning to end.

“There was nothing unusual there,” Seven of Nine said briskly. “Load the next one.”

But Hugh was marveling, not at the display screen gone black but at his own prosthetic arm. Like the one in the footage. The one which had reached out, and held on, and changed. That had been – a family. And his kind had taken it. And now it was gone.

“Hugh. There is more footage to go through.” Seven’s voice was sharp, in understanding perhaps. Emotions were irrelevant but real.

He was not listening. His friend Geordi had told him families could be left, but now he knew they could also be destroyed. He thought for the first time of the lieutenant on the Enterprise, shouting. He thought of Geordi, walking and then running in a city of red stone.

“When we, when I assimilated other species resistance did not matter,” he said. “I did not think about it. There were the thoughts of all the others there instead. But now they are gone and it’s – empty. In here. And I see all the things that were wrong.” He tapped his chest plating with his organic hand. “This is very strange.”

Hugh thought that maybe Seven of Nine would not answer, that maybe this was more _frivolous conversation_. But she said, “You will fill that space with your own thoughts. And with the encouragement of those around you.”

“Those around me. My friends?”

“Yes. Being an individual is difficult, you will have to adjust. There will be doubt, guilt, things we never experienced in the Collective. The Borg are...limited, in that way. You will have to grow.”

“Oh.”

“But those around you will assist. You must let them.”

Hugh asked, “Seven of Nine. Are you ever lonely?”

She gave him a terse nod.

“We must return to our assignment,” she said, and brought up the next response to her query. This was the task they had been given, to find evidence of what the Collective was planning. Voyager needed to know. His friend Geordi needed to know.

Though it was hard it was his function – more than that it was his friend. So he complied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geordi is still desperately telling himself he thinks of Hugh as just a good pal, and meanwhile Hugh is picking out baby names. 
> 
> Am'aman design assisted by Nemonus. I told her I was trying to figure out a bird alien and she was like what if you assimilated a bunch of sentient hoatzins. 
> 
> (Also: I love Tom Paris, I have always loved Tom Paris, Torres/Paris was baby's first otp, but what I love about Tom Paris is how they start you off thinking he's going to be the arrogant rebel without a cause 90s-hot skirt-chaser type, and then very quickly you realize he's actually a well-meaning himbo attracted to women who can beat him up. In like the second or third episode he asks a perfectly reasonable question about time paradoxi and Janeway lovingly calls him a moron. That is the T/P dynamic we're working with here, in case anyone was wondering.)


	12. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Not only had Captain Janeway joined in the pool tournament, she’d played with the ruthlessness of a Cardassian interrogator and the cunning of the Tal Shiar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sticking to his anti-Borg stance would be easier for Geordi if he wasn’t so attracted to mechanical sentience of all kinds. On the one hand, Borg implants are invasive and controlling and represent untold horrors! On the other hand, that exoplated six-pack…

_Chapter Ten_

_(in which Geordi has a revelation)_

It could almost, if you played around with the VISOR sensory frequencies and also hit your head, be just another work day on the Enterprise.

Geordi woke up in his room, which was almost but not quite like his room back home; the bed was off the wrong wall, for one, and the sonic shower set-up was smaller, and the engine hum from decks below wasn’t quite the right pitch. He put on his uniform, which was almost the uniform he was used to, and replicated a glass of water which almost tasted right, and the computer voice that answered when he asked the time was the same. But the Engineering he was due in wasn’t the same – for one thing, it wasn’t his. He outranked Lieutenant Torres but she was Voyager’s chief engineer, and Starfleet protocol dictated that in there he follow her lead. La Forge protocol dictated he get through a shift’s worth of advanced technology without blowing a fuse to life support or growling over rank. He wasn’t much looking forward to it.

He stepped out into the living area, which was empty. Funny. He hadn’t shared space with Hugh for very long but already it felt weird not seeing him.

The lack of witnesses brought on the urge that he’d been battling all night, tossing with it until sheer exhaustion won out. How easy it would be to say, “Computer, bring up all records on the USS Enterprise after stardate...”

He hadn’t, of course. Hadn’t so much as peeked into the fate of his friends, his family. Hadn’t even looked up information on the crew he found himself with now, though he sure wanted to; coming back to his room last night he’d caught a glimpse down the hall of someone who looked a hell of a lot like Ensign Becket, last seen leaving Engineering – _Geordi’s_ Engineering – with burned hands. After ten years, probably few of the Enterprise crew were original. After ten years who knew if the Enterprise was even still in one piece! What was he supposed to do if he ran into Becket in the hallway?

Geordi forced himself to the door, with a final tug of his uniform that turned out to be a lot less necessary on a two-piece jumpsuit. At least that was an improvement, although by now you’d think Starfleet would have found a style that wasn’t so baggy. Anyway.

He stepped out into the hall, strode down to the corner where another hallway spiked off and nearly collided with Hugh coming towards him.

“Hello, Geordi!” said Hugh. He was following Seven of Nine, still marching down the corridors like she had tested each one for efficiency and found them all wanting, and Seven was...following a little kid who looked part Ktarian, with blonde hair and a row of angled spikes down her forehead. When the kid heard Hugh she swiveled and came back; Seven paused but didn’t follow, with an air of bemused impatience. Her expression as she watched the girl was almost fond, which raised a whole lot of questions about Borg child-rearing Geordi didn’t feel awake enough to deal with.

The kid stuck out her hand, holding her other arm behind her back in an obvious imitation of Seven’s stance. “Hi!” she said. “You must be Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge.”

“I must be,” he said, and shook.

“I’m Naomi Wildman, captain’s assistant,” she said proudly.

“Captain’s assistant, huh? Guess I should salute.”

“I’m in charge of greeting all new crew members. I can give you a tour of the ship if you want! Or if you need any help with replicator rations—”

“Naomi Wildman, you will be late for your lessons,” Seven said.

“Oh, yeah.” Naomi looked briefly crestfallen, then brightened back up. “I get to help Seven and Hugh look for Borg attacks,” she said, like this was the coolest thing in the world.

“After you have finished your astrometrics lessons.”

“Aw, Seven...”

“Complaining is futile,” Seven said, and moved on, Hugh and Naomi following in her wake, a strange little team, two ex-Borg plus one young admirer.

“See you later,” Naomi called, and after a moment’s hesitation Hugh said the same thing. The corridor’s acoustics carried their voices a bit, so that even after they were out of sight he heard Hugh say, “Ktarian. Species 6961,” to which Naomi said, “Yeah! I know a ton of Borg designations, ask me one. Ask me what number the Skorr are...”

Starfleet kids. They were practically their own species.

It was something of a relief to actually enter Engineering. The equipment was different and the layout was off but still there was no disguising the reassuring glow of the warp core, or the screens for dilithium intake and nacelle stabilization. _I know this stuff,_ he thought, and braced as Lieutenant Torres came at him from around a console.

“Welcome to Engineering,” she said. “I’d show you around but I’m about to take the warp core offline for maintenance. Figured it’d be better to do it _before_ the Borg show up.”

He winced. “I really didn’t mean to show up out of nowhere and dump my problems on you...”

She shrugged. “I get it. We went four weeks without something stupid happening, I was starting to get bored. Think you can help refit the plasma buffers? Vorik’s the only one besides me I trust to handle it but I need him on the warp core.”

Geordi considered, while B’Elanna Torres stared at him. Plasma-buffer refits were every engineer’s worst nightmare: finicky, labor-intensive and a great way to flood the whole ship with tasteless, odorless, scanner-resistant toxic gas if you fucked your calculations up. On the Enterprise he usually let Data handle it. This was one heck of a test.

He grinned at her.

“Think I can manage,” he said. “You guys still use coil-injector bases around here?”

“That or the blood of lost ensigns. Take your pick,” she said, and waved him off.

*

Three hours into the refit and he lowered himself onto the floor to flex his aching fingers and let things cool. The learning curve of new tools had slowed down the first hour, but not by much, and he mastered the new tech quickly. And while soon he’d get back up and see what else needed doing, because there was always something needing doing, he wasn’t in charge here and so he could let himself steal a minute to sit on the floor of the room’s upper ring with his back to the terminal bank and take in the view.

Geordi wasn’t sure if he’d spend the rest of his life in Engineering. Sometimes he missed being on the bridge full-time, thought those rare occasions in the captain’s chair hadn’t been so bad after all, even if he knew he wasn’t meant for that captain’s chair in particular. Sometimes he thought he’d like a posting at a research facility where there was nothing for it but to get into the murk of invention, and sometimes he thought he’d miss the excitement of flagship life. Mostly he thought he had a long career ahead to surprise himself with. But watching Voyager’s warp core swirl just now, it was hard to imagine giving that up. Hard not to miss his own swirling core, which centered him as much as it did the Enterprise.

Though probably there was less accidental time travel when you worked at a research facility.

To his left the open lift hummed, and Lieutenant Torres stepped off. Geordi got back to his feet and proffered her his calculations; she took the padd and glanced at it briefly.

“Thought that would take you longer,” she said, a touch begrudging but only a touch.

“Work helps me not think about everything else,” he said. “Right now there’s a lot I’m trying not to think about.”

She snorted, then paused, something else clearly on her mind. “One question,” she said. “Are you really Starfleet from the Alpha Quadrant ten years ago? This isn’t some mass hallucination or cloning plot or alt-universe vortex or pitcher-plant telepathy?”

Geordi blinked. She smirked at his expression.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve run into what we thought was a beacon from home. The captain thinks you can get us out of here, she’s not saying it but that’s what she’s thinking, and that’s what everyone else is thinking too. Hell, that’s what _I’m_ thinking. Space-time short-cut...but like I said, it’s not the first one of those we’ve stacked our hopes on. And they haven’t exactly worked out for us yet.”

He folded his arms to his chest, uncomfortable. The thought had occurred to him: what if, beyond anything the Borg could do to them, there simply wasn’t any way to get back to where he and Hugh belonged? Voyager had been lost in the Delta Quadrant for seven years, they’d said. Seven years of marvel and mystery and advanced Borg sensors stapled to the shields, but they hadn’t managed to reach home. What if this wasn’t an out-of-sync blip the way finding Data in San Francisco had turned out to be, the timeline wefting and warping itself in a temporal Möbius strip, but something else? Something fixed and firm?

But this wasn’t anything B’Elanna Torres didn’t already know. Besides, they’d had the same worries in San Francisco and that had turned out alright, hadn’t it? Data had his head back and everything.

Geordi said, “No offense, but I miss being the guy who tells someone else to do the plasma-buffer refits. I’m not planning on sticking around.”

“Yeah, you’re really Starfleet. You guys are always so quick to accept the nonsensical.”

It was a strange way to phrase it, from someone in Starfleet yellow and black. She must have seen his confusion.

“Janeway’s an idealist, but we’ll see how her bosses feel when we show up. Field commissions are pretty easy to reverse.” She rolled her eyes. “I know I’m Starfleet now too, despite my best efforts. Just saying I won’t be surprised if, once we get home, half the ship goes from heroic officers to misguided rebels again real quick. Tom says I’m a cynic.”

“Rebels?”

“Didn’t someone warn you? Welcome to the only Federation-Maquis hybrid crew in this or any other corner of the galaxy. It only took half the ship being killed and no replacements but the people they wanted to throw in the brig.” When he only kept gawking at her, Torres’ gaze narrowed. “Wait, ten years...that’s just a bit before the colonies declared themselves, isn’t it? You’ve never heard of the Maquis.”

“Who? Declared themselves what?”

She smirked again. “Guess I shouldn’t tell you. Don’t worry, you seem like a nice guy for a Federation back-stabber, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Thanks for the refit.” She waved the padd at him and started back toward the lift. Geordi scrambled after her in disbelief.

“Hold on, Lieutenant,” he said, cramming himself on the small platform with her so she couldn’t leave him behind. She scowled at the crowding but he said anyway, “Are you saying you were fighting Starfleet when you ended up here?”

“We weren’t trying to,” she snapped. “We were _trying_ to fight the Cardassians, but Starfleet wouldn’t stop playing galactic police force.”

“Starfleet isn’t a police force, it’s...”

“I know, I know, I went to the Academy too, I got all the lectures. Starfleet’s a lot of things. It’s also not easy to get _away_ from,” she said, with a meaningful glance at her own combadge. “Save yourself the self-righteous heart attack, OK? It’s fine. We’ve had seven years to figure it out.”

The lift clicked into place on the ground level. Neither of them got out.

“Look,” Geordi said, “my job, my _place_...it’s important to me. I joined Starfleet for a reason. I wasn’t expecting officers on a Starfleet ship to feel differently.”

“If it helps,” Torres said after a moment, “I don’t know if I do feel differently. Like I said. We’ve had seven years. You can lower your phaser now.”

“Fine,” he said, and then: “Sorry. You’re in the uniform and this is your Engineering. You don’t have to defend yourself to me.”

“No, I don’t.” She waited long enough for the silence to get awkward before adding, “Now are you going to move your carcass off this lift and help me with the nacelle alignments or are you going to fight the Borg Queen from here?”

“Not sure I like my options,” he groaned, and slid past her. She directed him to a workstation with ample smugness, which probably he deserved.

“Should get Hugh in here,” he said as he called up the nacelle schematics. “He loves calculation minutia.”

Lieutenant Torres, who’d stationed herself at a console next to his, shot him a quick look. Reflections off her screen speckled her face. “You’re really OK with him?” she asked, but he couldn’t read her tone of voice.

“Yeah,” he said. “I really am. Aren’t you? With Seven of Nine around.”

“I had doubts in the past,” she said to her screen. “The Borg are – you know what the Borg are.”

“I know Hugh’s not Borg,” Geordi said. So the same tired argument had caught up with him after all, all the way out here.

“ _You_ don’t have to defend yourself to _me_ ,” she said. “Or Hugh. I trust Seven and I trust that Hugh’s like Seven. But it’s a long journey. There isn’t some switch to flip that makes him stop being Borg. He’s going to need help.”

“That’s why I’m here. And I’m a pretty good engineer myself, Lieutenant. I know how switches work.”

“Delighted for you, _Commander_. You know how nacelle drift corrections work?”

He wasn’t really looking to get into a pissing match with her. But why was everyone, even here, even on a ship that had multiple former drones on board – in positions of power, even! why, even here, was everyone so determined to believe Hugh could never be anything but Borg?

“Shouldn’t take another chief engineer too long,” Torres said, some of the heat out of her voice. “By the way, there’s a pool tournament tonight in the holodeck, if that’s your thing. Last calm before the storm. Three weeks’ replicator rations riding on it, according to Tom.”

“High bet,” said Geordi, who’d been filled in on the ration system in a region with no reliable energy deposits. “He must be pretty good at pool.”

“He’s not in it, just going to instigate in the audience. He knows if he lost three weeks’ worth of replicator rations I’d kill him.”

Geordi laughed. Lieutenant Torres did not laugh. Geordi stopped laughing.

“Well,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I’m not much for pool but if anyone around here has a poker game going...”

*

He did go to the pool tournament, standing with the rest of the senior staff and quite a lot of junior officers and enlisted folks in a reproduction of a smokey French bar. He didn’t play but he chatted and watched, and confirmed his suspicions in doing so. This was...a different kind of Starfleet ship. A different kind of crew. Even leaving aside the rebel-forces thing.

They were all so easygoing with each other. Geordi had his friends on the Enterprise; he’d helped save their lives and they’d helped save his, and it was like he’d told Hugh before, serving on a starship really did give you another family. But Voyager’s crew took it to a level he’d never seen before. Starship families came with ranks, hierarchies, they were impermanent as people transferred in and out. You made solid, strong friendships and then you were reassigned and went off into the cosmos. It was different here.

Take Captain Janeway, for instance. She was at the pool game too, mingling with the crowd, cracking jokes, wielding a cue. Captain Picard had a standing invite to the senior-staff poker game back on the Enterprise but he’d never once taken them up on it, and truthfully no one expected him to. He was the captain. There was that distance.

But not only had Captain Janeway joined in the pool tournament, she’d played with the ruthlessness of a Cardassian interrogator and the cunning of the Tal Shiar. She’d kicked all her officers’ asses and then gone around the room afterwards, touching shoulders, slapping backs, on a first-name basis with just about everyone, even the enlisted crew. She let her fingers drift over her first officer’s chest for a second when he passed by and no one seemed to think this was strange. The crew all reflected the relaxed attitude back. Geordi called her “Sir” when responding to her question about how he was settling in, and Tom Paris said right in front of her, “Actually, around here it’s Captain, or maybe ma’am if you’re lucky.”

“Which I guess you aren’t,” the captain had responded, “or you’d be up next against me, hm?” Then she’d caught B’Elanna Torres’ eye and they’d both laughed.

It wasn’t that there was no decorum – he had no doubt that in a crisis Captain Janeway expected her orders upheld – but there was an ease, an understanding here. Maybe it wasn’t a surprise. After all, this ship hadn’t had the usual transfers and promotions. How could it when the nearest Starfleet base was decades away? And when you were on a ship with the same people for seven years, possibly for the rest of your life...well, maybe it was only natural to relax around your superiors when you’d been in such close contact with them for so long.

He leaned back against the old wooden bar, ignoring the holographic bartender’s flirtatious glances, and watched Captain Janeway decimate the competition. After a while Tom Paris came over, drink in hand. He was blonde and flirtatious himself, although the rakish vibes were dulled somewhat by the distinct whitish-gray baby vomit stain on his uniform breast.

“Didn’t notice ‘till I got here,” he sighed. “But for the next three hours Miral vomit is Neelix’s problem. Hey, cheers.”

Geordi held up his own replicated synthale and took a sip. Then he winced. “Oof. Your replicators are off.”

“They take a certain experienced touch. Our energy sources aren’t always Starfleet standard. But it’s either slightly sour ale or Neelix’s leola root cocktails. If I were you I’d stick with the ale.”

“Guess there’s going to be a lot around here I have to get used to.”

“Aw, it’s not so bad. You start liking the Delta Quadrant after a while.” Geordi pursed his lips in disbelief. Paris, grinning, took an exaggerated swig. “To be honest, I wasn’t exactly winning any awards for exceeding expectations back home. But then I get stuck out here.” He shrugged. “Now I’m wearing a wedding ring and baby vomit and I get to be at the helm of an Intrepid-class starship instead of behind a penal colony workstation. My daughter’s going to grow up on the best ship in the fleet surrounded by the best people in the galaxy, seeing things I can’t even begin to imagine.” Paris took another long sip, throat working. “At this point I’m just enjoying the ride,” he said after.

Geordi nodded. He understood.

“Speaking of, I’ve got to show you the Delta Flyer. Built her from scratch and she’s the fastest, most powerful shuttle you’re ever gonna get to fly into an asteroid belt.”

Then the captain rejoined them, having vanquished her entire senior staff. “Sorry to interrupt show and tell,” she said, and Paris held up both hands in cheerful defeat. “Geordi, I wanted to let you know I asked Hugh to go to Sickbay tomorrow so the Doctor can begin removing his implants. He seemed a little uncertain, and it might help if you’re there with him.”

“Of course.” The tinging warmth in Geordi’s limbs was more relief than bad ale, he knew. “This is a big step for Hugh. An important one,” he said, as though saying it out loud could convince Hugh by osmosis. Not that he would need to be convinced. Why would he want to keep all the Borg hardware? Doctor Crusher’s observations notwithstanding…

Captain Janeway said, “I’ve been wondering if the key to the Borg’s odd behavior is in how Hugh was rescued. With Seven we severed her connection to the Collective completely.”

Paris added, “And even then it was a fight to keep her from trying to make new ones. Poor Harry had a bruise on his forehead for weeks.”

“But Hugh’s implants are still largely intact,” Janeway said. “Disrupting that connection isn’t the same thing as cutting it off altogether. If it weren’t for Voyager’s shielding the Borg could track him easily. In Seven’s case, when we severed her, her human physiology began reasserting itself. Biologically speaking Hugh’s still fully a drone.”

Geordi said, “Then I think we should cut the link for good and get as much of that metal out of him as possible.” But again he heard Beverly, who was never one for mincing the truth: _I don’t think he thinks about_ _his implants_ _much at all._ Unconsciously he tapped the side of his VISOR. But that wasn’t the same _thing_. His VISOR didn’t change who he _was_. It wasn’t a symbol of capture and brutalization.

Did Hugh know anything about symbols?

“We’ll have the Doctor go over it with him tomorrow,” said the captain, unaware of Geordi’s sudden doubts. “See if we unearth any surprises. At least we don’t have to worry about him trying to contact the Borg himself. I’m impressed by how dedicated he is to his new life, how quickly he’s made that adjustment.”

“The first few weeks were pretty rough,” Geordi admitted. “He had a lot to say about all the implants I’d get as a drone. But I never...”

“Never what?”

“Never feared him, I guess? The first time I was in the brig with him I went in all jumpy and braced for, you know. _Borg_. But he was more afraid of being locked in the cell than I was of being in there with him. To be honest I’m a little ashamed of how long it took me to admit it.”

“Can’t fault a guy for assuming the worst of a drone,” Paris said. “And you can’t tell me his first words didn’t include the Big A.”

“Yeah, I know, and I guess if there’d been a lot more of him in the brig staring at me...but it was just this one guy, trying to connect the way he’d been taught. We just had to show him there could be another way.” Another thought came to him. “You keep saying Seven of Nine resisted being removed from the Collective, but she acts so much more ahead in the process than Hugh. The way she speaks, for one.”

Captain Janeway said, “The Collective gave her a voice so we could form an alliance.” She smiled when Geordi couldn’t help his surprised grunt. “Exhausting story, one I probably shouldn’t share with you in detail. Believe me, it wasn’t an ideal way to remove someone from the hive.”

“Yeah,” Paris said, “the voice might’ve been there, but the will? She was not pleased when the doc started popping those implants off.”

“Oh,” Geordi said. “But you took them out anyway.”

“Of course we did. Not much of an alternative unless we wanted her signaling reinforcements.”

“Right.” The warmth was back in his limbs, but it wasn’t so pleasant the second time. More cloying and sticky. Felt a lot closer to dread.

But he was worrying for nothing. Hugh would want his implants out once they explained the situation to him. Why wouldn’t he? He wasn’t Borg anymore.

Janeway said, “We’ll talk more about how you freed Hugh later. For now let’s handle those implants. And enjoy the party. I suspect it’ll be a while before we have time for another one.”

She patted his arm and moved off. Paris said, “Starting to think we should run a specialized department in deassimilation. Guy comes to Voyager a drone and leaves a man. Everyone wins, right?”

“Right,” said Geordi again, and choked down the rest of his synthale.

*

Hugh was in Geordi’s unlit quarters when he got back; Geordi had given him the entry code, even if Hugh didn’t really need it here. “Finished regenerating?” he asked. “People are still in the holodeck if you want to join the crowd.”

“I will stay here,” Hugh said. “When I am done I have further work with Seven of Nine. She is very efficient.”

“Oh. So what are you doing?” Geordi asked, noticing Hugh’s position at the room’s desktop monitor. Photos of various species flashed by, most unrecognizable to him, along with twisting strands of mysterious alphabet in an alarmingly Borg shade of green.

“I am going over assimilation data,” Hugh said. “Looking for divergences. Tachyon particles. Temporal distortions.”

“And you’re...doing that standing alone in a darkened room?” Geordi glanced around. “Going to give yourself nightmares. This stuff doesn’t frighten you?”

“Why would I fear them? I have been part of many assimilations.”

“Yeah, exactly! Brings back bad memories, doesn’t it?”

“Memories are not bad or good. Memories are data.”

“For the Borg, maybe. But for Hugh?”

“Hugh _is_ Borg,” he said, so aggressively Geordi was taken aback.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Hugh kept his gazed fixed on the monitor. He didn’t answer. Geordi rubbed his head.

“I’m beat,” he said. “Tomorrow I have to help Lieutenant Torres Borg-proof the entire ship. Oh, and your session with the Doctor! I’ll be there too, if you want.”

“Yes,” said Hugh, but didn’t have much more to say on the subject.

“Well...” said Geordi, and sighed. “Good night.”

He moved towards the bedroom. But as he stepped through the doorway, Hugh said to his back, “Geordi? Have you ever felt guilt?”

He turned. The room would have been too dark for most people to make Hugh out, but Geordi’s VISOR had no such trouble: the former drone was his usual mix of colors haloed with a golden sheen. Data was similarly cybernetic and had a similar glow, though apparently regular vision couldn’t detect it. Geordi had always thought that was a shame.

And Hugh could see him, of course, with his ocular implant. It would take more than lack of light to hide the two of them from each other.

“Sure I have,” he said.

“Why?”

“Pretty much everyone has something in their life they regret. There are things I wish I’d done differently. People I wish I could have helped. Is this – is this because of the assimilations you’re researching?”

“I do not know,” said Hugh. “I do not know what the purpose of guilt is. Or shame. Should I feel these things?”

“I don’t think anyone can tell you that,” he said softly. “But I can tell you there’s no shame in being forced to do things against your will.”

“Against my will.” Hugh took a step in his direction, then a step back. “Borg drones have no will. This is why the Collective is wrong. Because it is wrong... _evil_...to take the will of others. Yes? You have said this.”

“Right, but what are you...”

“Then the Borg are evil. Then it is evil to be Borg.”

“You’re not _evil_ , Hugh. Did someone say you were? You don’t have to put up with that.”

“I am Borg. I can extrapolate from existing data,” Hugh said. He almost snapped it. “It is evil to be Borg. I must no longer be Borg and then I will not be evil. This is what they expect of me. This is what _you_ expect of me. My friend Geordi.” He looked away. “Then I will comply,” he said, sounding very far away.

So Geordi moved closer.

“Listen to me,” he said, and took Hugh by both shoulders, feeling how stiff the other man was under the exoplating, feeling the unnatural ridges and lines. Hearing the strum of machinery and cyborg systems – and under all that hearing only the sounds of someone breathing very fast.

“Geordi?”

He said, “Don’t you ever let anyone talk about you that way. No one. Not even _you_!”

“But what if we – but what if I do not want to—”

“Don’t want to what?” Geordi asked, but Hugh didn’t answer, and anyway it didn’t matter. “You’re not Borg anymore,” he said for possibly the millionth time, and he’d say it a million more, as many times as it took for Hugh to absorb it. “And I know sometimes it must get confusing, and hard, and maybe you can’t always see that for yourself, but _I_ can. OK? So you just listen to me, to your friend.”

“I am,” said Hugh. “I am, Geordi.”

“Then I’ll tell you what Data taught me: no one gets to decide for you what role you’ll play, or where you belong. Not any starship captain or Borg queen. Where do _you_ think you fit? What feels right to _you_?”

“Here,” said Hugh. “This. With you.” And the fingers of his prosthetic arm closed around Geordi’s wrist.

Geordi’s soapbox caved in underneath him. Realization took hold along with Hugh. His mouth was still open but there were no longer any words coming through, or much air. If Hugh noticed it didn’t bother him. He just stood there. And Geordi thought three things in quick succession: that he wouldn’t be able to pull free, that he didn’t _want_ to pull free, that any fear in the room now was his own. Not fear of Hugh hurting him, no, never that, but fear of his own blood sparking and swooning in his veins. His wrist, actually all the skin up and down his arm, tingled within the cool grasp. And he wasn’t an idiot, he knew what this was, he’d felt it before, although never so instantly, so intense. Mind fizzing he flexed his captive fingers. Hugh noticed and let go, and Geordi felt the loss.

“Good night, Geordi,” said Hugh, and went back to the desktop monitor as if nothing had happened.

If Deanna Troi had been there, Geordi would have gone to talk to her. If Guinan had been there, he would have gone to beg her advice. If Data had been there, he would have gone to his quarters to panic, safe in the company of someone for whom he had absolute trust. But none of these people were there, so instead Geordi went quietly into the bedroom and shut the door and raised the lights.

And said very calmly to the hanging mirror:

“Oh. Hell.”


	13. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Captain’s prerogative also covered the right to gossip with your first officer about your crew; it was in one of the Federation charter amendments, Janeway was pretty sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out much heavier on the J/C and lighter on the G/H than expected! Sorry if that's not why you guys are here, but there's a lot of plot that needs setting up - plus the chapter after this is a true Wordswithout classic, 14 pages, 9,000 words, our favorite engineer-Borg duo failing to communicate in every and all ways, the works.
> 
> *waves*

_Chapter Eleven_

_(in which old plans put new ones into motion)_

_Captain’s_ _personal_ _log, stardate_ _54730.2_

 _I’ve increased crew rotations and put the ship on standing yellow alert – I don’t know when our friend will be making her next move but I want to be ready for her when she does. As always there’s the balance, keeping people prepared but not overworked. It’s not a balance I’ll ever feel like I’ve mastered. The hardest part of command is always_ after _the battle. During, you don’t have time to second-guess yourself, but after...did you prepare enough, going in? Did you run enough checks?_ _Calibrate_ _your shields_ _to a high enough percentage_ _?_ _Could you have seen that faulty vent if you’d looked for just five more minutes, tested it one more time?_ _What if you let a crew member sleep in when he should have been pulling double shifts? What if you’re attacked_ _while he’s out_ _? Or what if_ _you_ don’t _, and_ _you’re_ not _, and then when the threat does come it_ _lands on_ _an exhausted, distracted crew?_

 _At least we have some inkling of what we’re facing. I don’t know what went wrong to drop Geordi and Hugh_ _on us_ _but they’ve_ _become_ _an early warning system, one I intend to make use of._

 _Funny. I’ve been pacing my ready room for an hour, wondering if all captains feel this way before going up against as_ _total_ _a threat as the Borg – but Geordi La Forge was present during the first Borg attack. And during the first_ _known_ _Federation_ _encounter with a cube, before that. He must_ _recognize_ _this tension more than any of us,_ _so maybe that’s why_ _he’s kept himself very busy these last couple of days. I could ask him how Captain Picard handled himself...I have the man’s records, but there’s nothing like witnessing something first-hand._

 _Meanwhile, our newest ex-Borg guest is adapting to Voyager almost as fast as Voyager_ _is adapting_ _to him. This morning I caught him and Naomi Wildman playing k_ _adis-kot in the mess hall...he was losing, but not by much…_

 _He always wants to know about his friend Geordi, or tell you about him. I can tell he takes friendship_ very _seriously. But where better than Voyager to learn about friendship, mm? I’m happy to have those two here. Not so happy about the situation that brought them here, but to have a chance to get to know them – yes, we’ve had worse surprises._ _And with every surprise that question, however small, however unsure...will this be the time we get home? Is this the moment we needed? How many times can the hope be crushed before you have to give it up?_

 _Again and again it comes back to the Borg. How_ _long_ _can one ship_ _keep_ _go_ _ing_ _up against them and survive? It’s a question I can’t answer, math I can’t fathom – but if there is an answer at all it’s in the Borg we’ve helped save. In Seven, and Icheb, and Hugh, in all of them. I don’t know_ _why_ _I’m so convinced of that, but I am._

_Assimilation is the ultimate act of brutality. Every breath Seven takes as a free woman is an act of resistance._

_I know Starfleet frowns on overthrowing royalty, but just this once I think they’ll make an exception._ _Personally_ _I’m looking forward to it. And—_

“Captain to the bridge.”

“On my way. Computer, end log.”

*

Janeway came out onto the bridge and asked, “What do you have, Harry?”

He nodded at the viewscreen from his station. “Sensors just picked up this debris field.”

She turned to consider the smashed metal jumble on screen. There was nothing large enough or whole enough to readily identity, but the jagged lines of what was left were a clue. She glanced over at Seven, who was standing at the handrail’s secondary tactical console.

“It is Borg,” Seven confirmed. “Sensors indicate a tachyon-particle buildup identical to that found on the Enterprise shuttle.”

“We don’t usually see tachyon particles in Borg debris,” Janeway mused. “I wonder if this is the remains of a cube or something else?”

“If we beam some of it on board Voyager I can study it more closely and make a determination.”

“No life signs?” she asked, because with the Borg you really never knew. Harry shook his head.

“None. But sensors did pick up another ship on the edge of the field – small, not Borg, nothing we’ve seen before. They saw us coming and took off before I could hail them.”

“Its tractor beam had been activated,” Seven said. “I believe we interrupted a salvage operation.”

“No need for them to run. I’d be happy to split the spoils with them,” Janeway said, deadpan. “Harry, keep an eye out in case they decide to swing around and press their claim.”

“Right. Risky business, scavenging in Borg trash. What do you do when they come back for it?”

“And yet we’ve done so several times,” Seven said.

Janeway said, “I like a little risk when it nets big reward. Start beaming what you can of the wreckage into Cargo Bay 2.”

“Speaking of risk,” Harry said, “that tachyon buildup is going to need a couple days to dissipate before we can go near the debris.”

“Fine. Set up a level six force field around the area and initiate decontamination procedures. And watch internal sensors – if something in there starts moving I want to know before it assimilates a gel pack.”

Harry nodded, got to work. Janeway went to Seven’s side and looked on, pleased, as bits of wreckage began shimmering out of sight and into Voyager’s cargo hold. “A trail of breadcrumbs,” she murmured.

Seven raised an eyebrow. “Captain?”

“Little clues, Seven. Puzzle pieces of a path we can follow. And if we do it right, we can surprise the Borg, take them on before they’re ready for us.”

“The Borg are _always_ ready.”

“That’s what they think.”

Seven huffed. “Most individuals would not be so eager to confront the Collective. This ship has an apparent delight for getting into unwinnable situations.”

Janeway said smugly, “But we keep winning them, don’t we?”

Seven did not look convinced, and she shouldn’t have been – hadn’t Janeway just been worrying the odds herself? But captain’s doubts were for a captain’s log. Out on the bridge you made your plans and trusted your crew, and hoped the will of the cosmos was on your side.

The Borg Queen was threatening Janeway’s people. She could think of no better reason to want to throw the first punch.

“I’ll be in my ready room. Let me know when all the debris is on board,” she said.

Alone again she started to finish her log, but then another idea struck her and she sat at her desk, pulling her desktop monitor towards her. “Computer,” she said, “pull up any existing files on the Enterprise’s encounter with the Borg drone Third of Five, also known as Hugh.”

Information began to flood the screen. Quite a lot of it was classified – and quite a lot of that was classified beyond even her rank – but there was enough left to spend hours on. She scrolled down to the date of Geordi La Forge’s disappearance, but there was nothing; officially that incident was labeled an unknown phenomena, and if there was anything about Hugh’s or the Borg’s role in it, it would take more pips than she had to find out. But searching prior to that date, prior even to the first mention of the name _Hugh_ in Captain Jean-Luc Picard’s logs…

She raised her eyebrows, rested her chin in her hand. “Interesting,” she muttered into her palm.

Janeway was still at it some twenty minutes later when the door to her ready room chimed. “Come in,” she said absently. Chakotay came in, went up to her desk and took stock of the empty coffee cup by her elbow.

“Find something? Need me to replicate you a fifth cup?” he asked. “You’ve got that look that suggests this is going to be a long day.”

She chuckled. Chakotay had few flaws but his insistence that coffee was only drinkable with gallons of milk and sugar was one of them.

“I’ve been going through the Enterprise’s logs on their first encounter with Hugh,” she said. “Trying to see what’s different in him that is driving the Borg to change their own behavior.”

“Trawling the past, hm? I thought we were trying to avoid that. Temporal Prime Directive?”

“Captain’s prerogative,” she said firmly. “Besides, this is from before the time split, or time rupture, or whatever it is. Look at this.” She swiveled the screen to face him, and he bent to scan it.

“Borg virus?”

Janeway said, “A Borg scout ships crashes and a drone on board is injured. Initially the Enterprise was reluctant even to treat him.”

“Not sure I blame them. The Borg aren’t exactly known for their gratitude.”

“But once they do decide to treat him, Captain Picard asks Geordi to work on a virus – something the Borg could inadvertently expose themselves to when they reestablished their link with the drone. And he made one. Some kind of paradox shape, it says here, something the Borg wouldn’t be able to comprehend when it entered their matrix.”

Chakotay nodded. “It would spread through the Collective as they tried to adapt to it. Pretty clever.” He paused. “Funny. From what Geordi told us, he’s only here because he risked his life coming after Hugh. And Hugh risked his trying to get back to the Collective so the Enterprise wouldn’t be harmed. Not to mention his hacking his way onto Voyager so we could save Geordi’s life. They’re so close now, it’s hard to picture Geordi deliberately infecting him.”

“That’s why they didn’t go through with it. Instead of a drone designated Third of Five Geordi ends up with an individual named Hugh. He tells Picard, Picard calls the virus plan off, Hugh requests asylum...”

“...the Borg attack and here they are.”

“That virus plan,” Janeway mused. “Could the Borg have learned of it somehow? If Hugh was accidentally transmitting his location to them, he could have been transmitting other things too. Maybe this is some kind of counterattack.”

“If that was the case, you’d think the Collective would just adapt itself and move on. Besides, are we sure Hugh ever learned about the virus? I doubt they’d tell a drone they were turning him into a ticking time bomb.”

“Good point.” She sighed, swiveled the desktop back and clicked it off. “We’ve got a cargo hold full of Borg detritus,” she said, “maybe that’ll tell us more. I’d like details on this virus from Geordi, though.”

Chakotay nodded. “I’ll tell him to drop by. If Hugh can spare him for a moment.”

“They are attached at the hip, aren’t they? This must all be very overwhelming for Hugh, it certainly was for Seven.”

“I’m not sure that’s it. If I didn’t know better I’d say...”

“What?” She stood, eyes narrowed with interest. Captain’s prerogative also covered the right to gossip with your first officer about your crew; it was in one of the Federation charter amendments, she was pretty sure. “You’d say what?”

“I’d say there’s a little more in that relationship than two buddies on a starship.”

“Borg romance?”

“Why not? Seven has expressed romantic interest in others along the way.”

“Oh...if that’s the case I envy those two, Chakotay,” she said, not really meaning anything by it. “That closeness. Two against the world.”

He looked very carefully down at her desk. Reached out and very carefully pushed her discarded coffee cup farther from the edge. His voice when he spoke was very careful too.

“You don’t feel too alone, I hope?” he said. “Because you aren’t, Kathryn. You never will be.”

Janeway froze. He had every right to use her first name – in a private discussion, in her private room – they were comrades and they were friends and from the beginning he had been a loyal officer and it didn’t mean anything more than that. It couldn’t mean anything more. Starfleet didn’t forbid relationships with lower-ranked staff but it expected its captains, especially, to use discretion and consider the circumstances. A captain without the ability to reassign her crew, an officer who could never leave, the power dynamics, the impropriety...and the lack of intent on his part, when he was simply her good, good friend. A friend had every right to use her name.

But, still, every time he did it was a jolt of acid warmth in her stomach, down her spine, and she’d been _engaged_ once, she wasn’t an idiot, she knew what it meant. To her. The unexpectedness of it, Cah-ptain becoming Kah-thryn without warning, without time to steel herself. A phaser shot from the dark. Loss of stabilizers, of gravity.

And because there were these circumstances she’d never tell him any of this. Just wait without defenses for her name in his low voice, and take full damage every time.

She went around her desk and up the steps to her couch, casual, loose-limbed. “Anyway, what brought you by?”

Chakotay shrugged. “Just thought I’d see if you wanted to swing by the mess hall for lunch.”

“I’d love to, but I want to get through the rest of this Borg virus data. Go on without me.”

“You sure? Neelix is attempting some Earthen delicacies in honor of our new members.”

“New members...” Janeway leaned back against the window, framed in light from passing stars, and looked at him thoughtfully. “You make it sound like they’re here to stay.”

“Aren’t they?”

“The plan is to send them back.”

He said, blunt and calm, because his role was to keep her grounded, “The way I see it, either they really do have the key to get home – to get _all_ of us home – or they’re as stuck out here as the rest of us. Either way they’re with us for the duration.”

“Well,” she said, “then I hope they like Neelix’s Earthen delicacies.”

“Sure I can’t tempt you to some yourself?”

“I’m sure, Chakotay. There’s just too much to do here.” A sudden burst of excitement spun her around on the platform and planted her hands at her hips. “A beam from the Alpha Quadrant to the Delta. A beam we know can be traveled successfully.”

“A beam apparently designed by the Borg,” he noted.

“ _Yes_ , but – if we can reverse the trip, adjust the beam – oh, Chakotay, we’ve pinned our hopes on less.” She gazed out the window. She spent so much time here, especially in the early days, wondering, longing, fending off despair. “We’ll get _all_ of us back,” she said to herself, to the trickster stars beyond. “This time we will.”

“I know you’ll do everything in your power to make that happen,” said Chakotay, because that was his role too. To be her assurance. To be her strength.

*

But two hours and another cup of coffee later and the words were beginning to swim on the screen in front of her. Chakotay was least successful in his role as minder of the captain’s proper eating habits but that didn’t mean he was wrong. Janeway gave into the empty room and her empty stomach, cut the screen off with a sigh, but as she was about to get to her feet the door chimed again. This time it was Geordi La Forge in the doorway, fiddling with the collar of his uniform like he still wasn’t quite used to it. The version ten years ago hadn’t had such a high turtleneck, she recalled.

“Commander Chakotay said you wanted to see me, Captain,” Geordi said, and she waved him in with a smile.

“At ease,” she said, gesturing him to the open chair. “Can I get you something? I’m debating another cup of coffee myself.”

“No thanks. I actually just came from the mess hall.”

“I heard Neelix had quite the spread laid out to celebrate your arrival. How was it?”

“I...I really appreciate the effort,” Geordi said. “I wasn’t expecting any kind of celebration, popping onto your ship out of nowhere with the Borg coming after.”

She laughed. “Shows you how desperate we all are for a friendly, familiar face. It’s gotten easier now that we’re in contact with Starfleet again, but seven years spent away from everything you ever knew...it’s a long time.”

He shifted in his chair. “On the other hand I just spent ten minutes in the mess hall chatting with Lieutenant Mossler – we were in the same Academy class, but three days ago Helen Mossler was on a science ship near Bajor. It’s a lot to wrap my mind around.”

“I’m sure. And how is Hugh settling in? His first implant check with the doctor is in another hour, right?”

She watched Geordi carefully as he answered; it wouldn’t really make a difference if Chakotay’s theory was correct, but it would certainly be, to imitate Tuvok, an _unexpected_ _development_. Somehow Janeway suspected a Borg/human coupling would be a shock back home, especially ten years ago. But if it could happen, ten years ago...if people could adjust to seeing Hugh _then_ , and make the path to acceptance a little smoother for Seven _now_ …

But Geordi just looked bemused. “He went to the astrometrics lab with Seven and I’ve barely seen him since. He likes having a job.”

“And he must like being around other former Borg,” she said. Geordi shifted again.

“Commander, I’d like to talk to you about your initial plans after you first found Hugh injured. I think there’s a clue there to this whole thing.”

“You mean the virus plan,” he said, obviously uncomfortable.

“I understand you got as far as actually designing the virus?”

“Right, a topological anomaly hidden inside an invasive program.” He glanced at her desktop monitor and she nodded; he turned it back on and found the file in question already displayed, a series of complex shapes overlaid on Hugh’s x-ray with Geordi’s own field notes underneath. Gesturing at the diagram as he went, he said, “It would be kind of like a puzzle with no solution. We’d hide it in Hugh’s systems and he’d spread it to the rest of the Collective, stress their neural network under a load of errors and wrong answers. The junk files and corrupted data would build up until the whole network froze. They’d probably adapt to it eventually, but not before it wiped out a lot of them.”

“Including Hugh,” Janeway said, and he winced. “It’s all right. I understand learning who Hugh was must have been a shock.”

“I didn’t have a problem taking the Borg down, I still don’t, but I don’t want to wipe out innocent bystanders in the process.”

“It’s true, he doesn’t strike me as much of a weapon of war.” She leaned forward over her desk. “But that is still part of him. That connection you were planning to exploit is still there. Seven makes sure to remind me herself whenever I forget.”

“I don’t think so, Captain,” he said stiffly. Janeway let it drop for now.

“I bring all this up,” she said, “because I wonder if that virus program got back to the Borg somehow. Reassimilating Hugh the usual way could do the Collective great damage if that program was installed. Maybe this is their attempt to find a way around it.”

“Maybe, but I’m not sure how they’d have found out about it. We haven’t had any contact with them since Hugh came on board.”

“Did you ever tell—”

The door chimed. She called, “Not now. Geordi, does Hugh know about this plan at all?”

“No, we never...”

The door chimed again. She said, louder and more irritated, “Not now.”

The door chimed a third time, followed by a sort of defeated grunt. Then it opened.

Hugh calmly lowered his hand from the ruptured access panel. He came inside.

Janeway, shocked, jumped up. “How did you...” Dumb question. She could see the ends of his assimilation tubules shifting back under the pasty skin across his knuckles.

“I accessed the controls,” he said.

“I can see that,” she replied, still a little boggled.

Geordi was on his feet too: “There’s no point to knocking if you’re going to barge in anyway! _Captain’s_ ready room, remember? Access has to be granted?”

Was that a shrug? It looked a lot like a shrug. Hugh said, “The computer said Geordi was here.”

“I – well...” Geordi gave up, said helplessly and not a _little_ impressed, “That’s true.”

“I will go to the hologram doctor in Sickbay now. Geordi said – you said you wanted to come.”

“You could have called for him over the comm system,” Janeway suggested.

“Inefficient.”

“I think it’s very efficient. Would have saved you a trip! And me a door.”

“Starfleet officers ignore communications. They remove their badges. They have interference. Maybe he would not receive me. _I_ hear no voices now. I cannot tell when he can hear mine...”

Hugh’s voice trailed off. His gaze did too, past Geordi and almost to Janeway at her desk. But he wasn’t looking at her, she realized. He was looking at her monitor.

She remembered a second after Geordi did what was on the screen. He took a huge step over to Hugh and said quickly, “You’re right, we should be going. Captain, when he’s done I’ll come back and fix this door panel.”

“No rush,” she said, distractedly, and clicked off her monitor, but of course it was too late. The Borg had excellent vision.

But if Hugh had seen, or what he thought of what he had seen, he gave no sign. He followed Geordi out of the ready room, for all appearances content. Janeway went to the door to watch them go, while at her shoulder the damaged entry panel sparked sadly.

“He has definitely been spending time with Seven,” she said.

Tuvok appeared off the bridge turbo lift, stepping into the little entryway in front of her ready room. “Captain, I have tactical updates...” He stopped mid-sentence and looked at the sparking panel. “What happened here?”

“True love,” Janeway sighed.

*

Just as she was deciding that it _was_ time to attempt Neelix’s take on nachos, Harry called for her over the comms. She’d barely gotten in the turbo lift. “Captain, that ship that took off from the debris field before is back in range and hailing. They’re asking to speak with you.”

“Perfect timing,” she said, because first contacts weren’t exciting enough without the added empty stomach. But she went back up to the bridge anyway, where Tuvok had just begun his command shift (she motioned for him to stay in her chair, telling her stomach she wasn’t staying a second longer than she had to) and the viewscreen was still dark.

“Audio only,” said Harry, and opened the channel at her nod.

“This is Captain Janeway of the Federation starship Voyager.”

“Ah, Captain. Yes. I am Xaw, first chair. I extend greetings from the Xet peoples.” The voice that came over was a bit sluggish and thick, drawing out the syllables and turning _yes_ into _yesh_. Voyager hadn’t run into the Xet before, and she made a mental note to ask Neelix about them later. “I apologize for the lack of a view, Captain,” Xaw said, “but we are a scavenging ship, well so, and competition among my people is intense. We prefer to keep our hauls to ourselves.”

Janeway glanced at Harry, who muted the channel long enough to say, “Sensors show we could take them out with one half-charged phaser. Whatever they’re hiding in there, it’s nothing we have to worry about.”

“I’ll stick with a friendly conversation for now, Harry, but good to know.”

He unmuted the channel, and Xaw said, “Our haul is what I wished to speak to you about, Captain. Well so, we were scavenging the debris field when our sensors picked you up – my apologies for the hasty exit but we were afraid you might be Borg.”

He gave the strained laugh of someone who wasn’t convinced the Borg weren’t about to pop out from behind Voyager’s left nacelle. Janeway said, “Understandable.”

“Yes, and you see...it’s just, this debris field...”

“Let me guess,” she smiled, “you saw it first.”

“We Xet live in a rather rough part of the quadrant, Captain, and technological advances are crucial. Certainly our neighbors think so. But the Xet homeworld lacks much in the way of raw material, so we must look elsewhere. This is, of course, unclaimed space...and my ship, of course, is no match for your own, but...”

She held up a hand out of habit. “We’re not interested in most of the technology here. We’ve taken it aboard to pick through but I suspect most of it won’t be any use to us, and I’d be happy to hand it over.”

Xaw went from politely wary to more interested. “May I ask what you are looking for? Perhaps, a trade...”

“Unfortunately I’m not sure yet myself. It’ll take a few days for the radiation to decrease enough for us to access the debris in person. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

“Well so!” Now Xaw’s voice was downright eager. “Most hospitable, Captain Janeway. Most hospitable. I will need some time to make arrangements for my own ship...in case the Borg do come by, ah hah.”

“Call over when you’re ready and we’ll beam you aboard,” she said. “Janeway out.”

“Making new friends, Captain?” Harry asked once the signal was cut.

“Never hurts,” she said. “I’m curious to meet someone whose livelihood is playing chicken with Borg ships for spare parts.”

Harry was too polite to say it this time. Tuvok in the captain’s chair was not. “Perhaps the two of you could trade techniques,” he said with perfect Vulcan dryness.

Janeway said back, with perfect Human confidence, “Oh, that was just the one time. So far.” And then finally she went for lunch.

*

That night was an odd one.

Janeway had never been one for nightmares. In her worst times – after the Caretaker, after the Equinox, deep in the Void – her default was simply not to sleep at all, to stalk and stare and know that the universe was mocking her ineptitude and her failures. There was a certain arrogance in it, to think the universe gave one good goddamn about you at all, but Starfleet captains were inherently a little arrogant. You had to be, to make it through.

So Janeway knew insomnia, knew pacing about her darkened room too exhausted for sleep as the walls closed in and the stars outside became prison bars. She was used to that. More so every year.

But nightmares? Not really her thing.

Why, then, after what had been a perfectly normal and even mostly enjoyable day – the loss of one access panel was worth it to see a former captive drone learn friendship, possibly love, and Neelix’s nachos hadn’t been half-bad after all once you scrapped off the jelly – should she have a nightmare?

“A warning sign,” Chakotay said when she mentioned it to him later, offhand. “You’re trying to tell yourself something.”

She was nonplussed. “Tell myself what?”

“Well, we’re bracing for another encounter with the galaxy’s biggest enemy. I’d warn myself abut that.”

“We spent weeks in Borg space and I never had a nightmare.”

“You spent weeks not sleeping and then days unconscious.” He smiled, a little thinly; their time allied with the Collective was still a sore spot between them.

She’d tried to bring it up once, hating that there should be any fracture in their family. She’d pointed out how well Seven was doing, how worth it the risk had turned out to be. Chakotay’s response had been the same then: “You spent days unconscious,” he’d said, and changed the subject.

She’d given up and let the fracture heal unevenly. As long as the limb could still bear their weight.

“What was your dream about?” he asked now. She rested her chin on her hands and tried to remember. The conference room around them was otherwise empty, and in a few minutes they’d both be due on the bridge. No time or place for dream talk there.

“It was more a sensation, really,” she recalled. “This terrible itchy feeling under the skin. I was...refusing to help someone. I didn’t know them but I’d promised...but I kept saying I had to go.”

“Doesn’t sound like you.”

“And the person I was talking to kept saying, ‘Yes, yes, go! Go and I’ll follow.’ But the more she agreed the angrier I got…I woke up feeling like I’d betrayed someone and _been_ betrayed. Plus I kept wanting to scratch.”

“There’s your warning. Something’s coming and you’re both worried about how you’ll handle it and what will happen to everyone else.”

“It was more than that, it was almost as if...almost as if it wasn’t me. As if I was watching myself make this terrible mistake.”

“We’ve spent a lot of time lately talking about assimilation – being assimilated, being unassimilated. Tough stuff. No surprise that would catch up to you.”

“Maybe. I have been meaning to talk to Seven about all this. I wonder if it’s helping or hurting to have someone else fighting for his identity so nearby.” She rubbed her forehead. “We have the best record against the Borg in Starfleet, so why does it feel like I’m hurling us into the unknown? Again?”

Chakotay caught her eye and smiled. “That’s what Starfleet captains do,” he said. “You’ve done a good job of it so far.” But then his smile flickered. Some of that thinness crept back in. “Just make me a promise. Don’t fling yourself so far out that the rest of us can’t catch up.”

“Tell my subconscious that. I hate nightmares,” she replied. But that wasn’t what he wanted, and she knew him. Knew what lengths he’d go to, to catch up. He’d said as much on a different world, under different circumstances – _“I’m not sure I can define parameters. But I can tell you a story” –_ and that was something else it was risky for them to talk about, so they never did.

He wouldn’t be satisfied with less than her promise. So Janeway nodded, making an indignant face. “Yes, sir,” she said.

Chakotay laughed and rose to go, and she did the same. And if the face reflecting back at her off the conference-table glass was, for just a second, not one she recognized as hers…well, it was only for a second. Then it was just Janeway looking back at herself, and she was due on the bridge, and she went.

_And if another ship, elsewhere in the quadrant, had lost track of the shuttle it was after but found Voyager in its stead – if on another ship, where there were no nightmares or unspoken conversations, a Humanoid figure who was so much more than that mouthed her name and set a course – well, then, Captain Janeway would never learn of it. And so it did not matter. There would be no way to resist._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course everyone picks up on the ~vibes~ before Geordi. Hugh doesn’t speak very clearly yet but he’s incredibly smart and observant and would absolutely have been Mr Popularity in high school. Like that guy you want to hate because he’s prom king and class valedictorian and captain of the football team and gorgeous but you can’t even hate him because he’s SO NICE. He ends up Borg president/therapist in canon, doesn’t he? Staring down Romulans in defense of his people? Of the two, Geordi is the more shy one whereas Hugh will be smooth as FUCK once he figures out that damn I/we thing.
> 
> And the crew of Voyager, being veterans of the Janeway-Chakotay Touch And Glance Show, realized this instantly. There is probably a betting pool going.


	14. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "From across the room Tom Paris called, 'Captain, we’ve got a body over here.' "

_Chapter Twelve_

_(in which no friendship is perfect and no cause without concern)_

Leaving Captain Janeway’s ready room with minor destruction in their wake, Geordi and Hugh aimed themselves for Sickbay. Geordi tripped over himself talking, whatever nonsense came to mind. His nervousness must have been blatant as a red alert. But if Hugh picked up on it he kept it to himself, and if he _had_ seen the information on the captain’s monitor, he kept that to himself too. Maybe it wouldn’t even bother him to learn of the virus plan, Geordi tried to convince himself. Maybe he would look at it as – as efficient.

Geordi didn’t really like the taste that left in his mouth. So he kept talking. First about fixing the door panel, then about how to tell if someone’s combadge was activated, and then about the art of engineering.

“People look at it as dry, a bunch of numbers and formulae, but it’s so much more. Engineering’s as much craftsmanship as it is math,” he said. “Sometimes you just have to feel the mechanism in your hand, get a grip on it, suss it out.”

“Like when you repair the commander Data,” said Hugh. “Or me.”

“Yeah! Yeah, just like that. You know, sometimes I really think the ship computer is alive.”

“It is not.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. It has a – a personality, almost. Take the one on this ship. Sure it’s a bit more advanced, but it’s got the same basic programming, same functions, even the same voice. Its _bones_ are the same. And yet I can tell from working with her that she’s going to be more tricky than the Enterprise. And that’s fair enough, she doesn’t know me.” He grinned. “Personally I hope she doesn’t have time to get to know me.”

Hugh tilted his head as they came within sight of Sickbay. “The ship computer has personality? But it is not sentient. Is it an individual too?”

He laughed. “Not really. Sorry, don’t listen to me. It’s just engineer’s superstition.”

“But I want to listen to you,” Hugh said, and Geordi felt his cheeks warm.

It was another reminder: that people went screaming in the opposite direction from Hugh made no sense when it was so _easy_ to talk to him. And while Geordi wasn’t exactly Reg Barclay, he had to admit he was closer on the social spectrum to Reg than to, say, Commander Riker. He got stuck sometimes, talking to people. Especially talking to people he…

But revelations aside (and he _was_ putting his revelation aside, firmly, with prejudice. There was no way Hugh could or would reciprocate and there was no reason to confuse him trying), it was still comfortable around the ex-drone. He listened so carefully, and was so interested in whatever you said.

“Geordi will not be the one who removes my implants?” he asked as they stepped inside.

“No, I think we’d better let the Doctor handle that one. But I’ll be there if he needs help, or if you need moral support. I’m there as long as you want me.”

This seemed to confirm something to Hugh, who merely nodded.

The Doctor came bustling from his glass-partitioned office, and motioned them over to a biobed by which various implements were waiting. Some of them were sharp enough to make Geordi wince, although Hugh looked unfazed.

“Ready to get started?” the Doctor asked, apparently less dour with surgery to look forward to. “It won’t hurt a bit.”

Hugh went to the bed. Geordi went over too, around the other side of the bed to give the Doctor room. “So what is this going to look like?” he asked when it was clear Hugh wouldn’t.

“We’ll start by removing those tracking signals, and the backups, and the backups to the backups. Anything that could send to or receive from the Collective.” Hugh nodded. The Doctor continued, “Then we’ll work our way down. Saving the major prosthetic replacements for last, that is. We’ll need to space out the surgeries to give the biological body time to adjust to the implant removals, but the exoplating isn’t too difficult, and after that’s off we can move on to the—”

“No.”

The Doctor blinked. “No?”

“No,” said Hugh calmly. The dread Geordi had been refusing to acknowledge since the party on the holodeck sat up and waved a phaser.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “The Doctor said it wouldn’t hurt. And you’ll be so much more comfortable afterwards. Think of how much easier it’ll be to sit down.”

“It is not fear. It is...”

Geordi bit his lip, waiting as Hugh struggled with the words. At last the former drone turned to him and said, “The receiver implants put this ship at risk. They must be removed.”

The Doctor said, “Excellent reasoning. Now if you’ll just turn this way...”

“But the others. I want to keep them.”

It wasn’t Crusher’s warning Geordi heard then but his own foolhardy voice, describing a Hugh who didn’t look Borg at all, who wouldn’t draw any attention, who would be accepted at first glance. He heard the footsteps as that Hugh vanished into the mist. And then he heard nothing but the rush of his own pulse and knew Hugh – the real Hugh, the only Hugh that mattered – was waiting for him to respond.

Could he cajole Hugh into removing the rest of his Borg parts? Argue him into it? Order him into it, even? He knew standing there with Hugh and the Doctor both staring at him that he could. Hadn’t Hugh said as much once, to Captain Picard? _You are many, I am one. What I want is irrelevant._ Yeah, Geordi could get him to take the rest of his implants off. And if he was an admiral-worthy scumbag maybe he would have tried.

“It’s your call,” he said, and Hugh’s shoulders loosened. “But why not? It would be easier for you to have them out. And you’ve seen Seven and Icheb, they seem OK without them.”

“Seven is Human. Icheb is Brunali.” Hugh furrowed his brow, working his way through his explanation. “They have a past. A family past. They know who they were before they were Borg, even if they don’t remember. Geordi, I do not.” Now he sounded worried. “I cannot be Third of Five now, but I do not know who Hugh is, all the way. Until I do, if I remove the implants...maybe then I would be no one. I would be lost.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Geordi said. “I’d find you.”

Hugh said, “Would you want to be without your VISOR even if the commander Data could direct you?”

He ran his thumb along the edge of it. Admitted, “I guess not. But, Hugh, I’m more than just my VISOR. And you’re more than your implants.”

“Yes. And when I find that more, then I will remove them. When I have learned enough about being Hugh.” He paused. Got a look in his eye that could only be described as _lost puppy_. “Is Geordi angry?”

“Hugh, how could I be angry?” said Geordi, praying his ears weren’t turning red, wishing he could deactivate the Doctor so at least there wouldn’t be _witnesses_. “This is a big step for you. A huge step! You get to decide how you want to present yourself.”

“Oh,” said Hugh. The lost puppy expression vanished.

 _Wait a damn minute, was he doing that on_ purpose _—_

“Well, if we’ve decided, I’d better get started,” the Doctor announced.

Geordi said, “Wait,” ignoring the hologram’s huff. “I just want to make sure, Hugh. As long as you...as long as you look the way you do, it could be more dangerous for you. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“My friend Geordi will help me,” Hugh said simply.

Geordi’s throat closed up.

“This is all very touching,” the Doctor drawled, “but I’d like to get started before my program degrades.”

Hugh held himself still as the Doctor took out his medical tricorder and activated the hand scanner. “You know, I’ve been helping Seven of Nine quite a bit with her own journey of self-expression,” he said. “If you’re ever in need of a third opinion on identity matters...and I know what you’re thinking, how could a hologram have any concept of identity, but—”

“No,” said Hugh, “I am not thinking that. Species 1210. Sentient holographic lifeforms. Capable of photonic reproduction. Planet located three point six five two light years from Borg space.”

“Oh, you don’t say!”

“Yes. We assimilated them.”

“Oh. You don’t say.”

Hugh looked back over his shoulder at Geordi while the Doctor loaded a hypospray. “This is acceptable? Geordi isn’t angry?” he asked again, as if to make sure.

“You’re finding you,” Geordi said. “I’m not angry.”

And if Hugh’s journey had ended there, it would have been the truth. But it didn’t.

*

Over the next several hours the Doctor deactivated and removed four separate nodes, one a twitching black disc that sent out feelers even as it was dislodged from behind Hugh’s right ear. Geordi, fascinated, was tempted to ask if he could keep the thing to study it, though it made his own neck itch a bit to watch. There weren’t many surprises in the surgeries themselves; he’d already seen Hugh’s cortical node lift itself out of his skull back when it was Geordi fixing him up after his scout-ship crash. The way the silvery, tubular device rose, flashing, and then sunk back into its metallic cavity...the way the dramatic visible implants were only the surface layer, the main apparatus rooted deep beneath the flesh like mold spores or icebergs...it was objectively bizarre but it was also a lot like Data. Geordi didn’t have it in him to fear cyborgs.

And yet all those interesting implants threatened Hugh’s new life.

“There we are,” the Doctor said at last. “All transmitting beacons officially cut off. Not bad for a day’s work.” He preened. “Once you get a knack for it, Borg surgery is quite self-explanatory.”

Hugh lifted himself off the biobed. “Feel any different?” Geordi asked, and he shook his head. He didn’t look any different either.

“You’ll need to regenerate for quite a while. Come back in two days and we’ll make sure nothing is sprouting new shoots.”

Hugh nodded, his eyepiece reflecting a steady red as he ran his own internal checks. Yeah, he was a lot like Data. But Data resembled Humans, felt kinship with Humans, and was doing everything he could to bridge whatever gap was left, physically and mentally. Hugh didn’t seem to be going in that direction, and it worried Geordi. Fine, maybe his VISOR-wearing ass was being hypocritical, but his blindness was intrinsic, Data’s positronic wiring was intrinsic – there was nothing _intrinsic_ about Hugh’s Borg body. It had been forced on him from outside, and there was no reason he should want to keep it. Was there?

_Am I stuck on this because I’m afraid he’s in danger or because I’m afraid he’ll want to go in a direction I can’t? Damn! I’m thinking myself in circles._

Maybe the implants had been a red herring all along, a representation of some distance Geordi wasn’t sure he could vault. It wasn’t like he found them ugly or threatening the way everyone else did. No – he risked a glance – ugly was not the word he’d use for Hugh. In a vacuum they were just cool pieces of tech. Cleverly designed. Uniquely shaped. Combined with that thin, watchful face. And that body, solid but not bulky, every muscle well-defined in black. And…

Geordi did not risk another glance.

The Doctor mistook the reasons for his silence and said, “Physically his body will have no trouble adapting. As for his individuality...if Seven has taught me anything, it’s the value of patience. Besides, looking is hardly being. When I was first activated I thought all you organics looked the same too.”

“I am functioning adequately without the tracking devices,” said Hugh. “I will complete my next task with Seven of Nine. Then I will regenerate.”

“No, you’ll regenerate first,” the Doctor said, and sighed to Geordi, “You see? Patience. Headstrong over-productivity is an inherent trait for the Borg.”

“Perhaps your production levels are unnecessarily stunted.”

“So is sarcasm. Regeneration bay, please! Besides, I’m sure Seven’s overdue for regeneration herself.”

The thought of joining bays lined with other users mollified Hugh, and not for the first time Geordi wondered at the level of attachment his friend was building with Seven and Icheb. Getting used to their company here was going to make it harder for him to go back to being the only ex-Borg rescue on the Enterprise.

Just as Hugh was leaving, Captain Janeway came into Sickbay with two aliens behind her. They burbled frantically to each other at the sight of Hugh and stared after even once the doors shut behind him. For his part Hugh didn’t seem to notice they were there.

“It’s all right,” Captain Janeway said. “The former Borg on this ship have all been severed from the Collective.”

Only once she began her introductions did the aliens turn around. Xaw and his shorter companion Xor were neckless, hairless Humanoids covered in sculpted patterns of white and gold scales, with domed heads, flat gray eyes and mouths that were vertical slashes looking more like gills. They had four webbed fingers on either hand and five webbed toes on either foot, and wore nothing other than tight knee-length breeches in a shiny black fabric. One moved his mouth at the other, making that burbling noise that might have been more exclamation than full language. It was enough to stump a ten-years-advanced Universal Translator, anyway.

“How’d it go?” Janeway asked, searching Geordi’s face as the Doctor explained. Was she checking to see if he was disappointed? Would she have insisted the implants be removed? He kept his expression neutral. Whatever circumstances this ship had dealt with, freeing Seven and taking her implants out against her stunted will, Hugh deserved his loyalty. Muddled as he currently was, that much he knew for sure.

Xor had moved away from the group, to get a closer look at Hugh’s removed nodes discarded on a tray. He burbled again at the other, excited.

“Doctor, Xaw and Xor are interested in Borg technology. They’ll be helping us go through the debris we’ve taken on board,” the captain said, with that pleasant tone that suggested their presence was more a kindness on Voyager’s part than usefulness on theirs. “But they’re having some trouble adjusting to our atmosphere.”

“So dry,” Xaw said in a slushy sort of voice. “You require so much oxygen...”

“Easily remedied,” the Doctor said, and went to find a hypospray. Geordi, who knew Lieutenant Torres was waiting for him with a long list, headed for the exit, but as he passed by Xaw reached out and tapped his shoulder with one of those moist, scaled fingers.

“That device you’re wearing,” he said. “What is it?”

“Called a VISOR. Helps me see.”

“Well so, very interesting. Are there many such devices here?”

“Not too many. I’m a pretty original guy.”

Xaw was peering at the connector ports with his watery, dinner-plate eyes. “I see on your ship you have many Borg drone devices. Some that are still connected to the drone! Ah hah. Is this one?”

“ ’fraid not. If you’ll excuse me...”

“Of course,” Xaw said, and stepped aside.

*

Lieutenant Torres was in Engineering. So was Seven of Nine.

“We think we’ve got a way of switching shield frequencies so the Borg can’t get through,” Torres explained. She was standing at a workstation by the warp core, while Seven removed a wall panel to expose a bio-neural gel pack.

Geordi said, “We tried that on the Enterprise. Didn’t work too well.”

“Right, because the Borg can adapt to the new frequencies faster than we can change them. But Seven thinks adding some of her nanoprobes to the gel packs themselves might give us a speed boost. That’s assuming we can keep them restricted to the packs connected to the shields.”

“I can keep them restricted,” Seven said.

“Hope so. Otherwise we’ll end up assimilating ourselves.”

“Doubtful. Unless one of your engineers fails to maintain the systems properly.”

“ _Doubtful_ ,” said Torres. They stared each other down, except that neither woman cracked and instead the bad energy whipped back and forth between them. Geordi took a stealthy step back to keep from being vaporized.

“Hey, uh,” he said, “seems to me that rapid a fluctuation in shield frequency could overload the emitters. What’s the plan for that?”

Torres blew out her lips in a noisy sigh. “A total refit, unless you can think of something better. Strengthen what we’ve got and hope it’s strong enough.”

“Mmm...pretty risky. Last thing we want is to blow an emitter and have to recharge mid-battle. Even your nanoprobe trick won’t work without shields to modulate.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

The three of them were quiet a moment. Then Geordi, thinking of Hugh’s Strategema theory and how useful it had proved with Data, said, “What if we focused on something other than the emitters? Funneled the strain around them to a system that can handle that kind of abuse?”

Torres leaned back against the core railing, planted her hands at her hips. “What system were you thinking?”

“Something that’s built for those kinds of wild power surges. Like...like something in the warp core safeties. Those are _meant_ to tamp down surges.”

“What happens if the warp core and the shields overload at the same time? No system is strong enough for both.”

“So we’ll – we’ll build a second set of systems. If the shield emitters start running too hot they’ll funnel the excess to the warp core safeties, and if the warp core starts overloading there’ll still be backup-backups available, and if _two_ sets aren’t enough it won’t matter because we’ll already have exploded into a new star.” He crossed his arms to his chest, equations deepening the idea’s shape as he thought it through. “Won’t be any more labor intensive than an emitter refit, and I think it’s got a better chance of success.”

“It’s a good idea, but we need to streamline it. A totally new converter that can channel energy overloads from the emitters to the warp core and back, instantly. Maybe even tap into secondary systems for real emergencies. If the worst damage we take fighting the Borg is burning out the holodeck, I’d call that a success.” Torres turned back to Seven. “Think you can train the nanoprobes to flow between that power corridor?”

She considered. “Yes.”

Geordi said, “Modulate the shields at Borg speeds, bounce excess energy to the core – or what if instead of wasting that excess we fed it at a controlled rate back into the phaser banks?”

Seven said, “Perhaps we should build an entirely new ship. It would be less involved.”

“Hey, if it works it works.”

“And if it doesn’t,” Torres said, “we’ll blow out our shields, weapons and warp core all at once.”

“Then the Collective will appreciate our efficiency in preparing for assimilation,” Seven said. There really was something to be said for that ex-Borg sense of humor.

Lieutenant Torres straightened off the railing. “None of this’ll matter if we can’t get the nanoprobes to work right in the gel packs,” she said. “Seven, you focus on that. I’ll run everything by the captain. If she approves I’ll round up extra manpower. Commander...your idea, your design. Put a converter mock-up together and figure out where you want to fit it.”

“Will do.”

Torres left, and Seven knelt at the open wall hatch and began removing the gel pack. Geordi activated his workstation. “Computer, show me all available schematics for the warp core. OK, now add schematics for shield emitters and phaser banks...and torpedo banks, too.” Data boxes littered the screen, and for some moments he was busy moving and deleting, slotting together the puzzle of a starship but leaving holes for the pieces he wanted to add. It was a mechanized dance with a partner who couldn’t be touched, but he was good at those. “No, that’s not it...computer, what about the input manifolds? ...OK, now...”

He typed quickly, the general bones of his converter falling into place as he went. Ten minutes passed, twenty minutes, forty minutes, an hour. “Now insert this into the specified areas and extrapolate the result at impulse power and full shield strength.”

“Working,” the computer said, and then beeped.

“Hm. That’s not bad. Now extrapolate the result at warp seven and full shield strength. Oh. Yikes. Let’s backtrack.” He shifted the connections around some, removed some components, added others, set the computer to reconsidering, and: “Yes! _There_ we go.” He slapped the side of the workstation. “Maybe you and me are going to be friends after all.”

While Geordi finagled, Seven removed her gel pack and brought it to another workstation, where she laid it out and speared it with various needles and prongs. It looked more like dissection than engineering; in a moment of downtime while the computer calculated, he came by for a closer look. “Chief engineer habit,” he told her when she glanced at him. “Keeping track of what everyone’s up to.”

“If you have doubts about the quality of my work,” she said – and stabbed the gel pack with another needle – “you can bring them to Lieutenant Torres.”

He held up his hands in a _mea culpa_. “No doubts, just curious. This is still all new to me.”

She studied him then, something calculating in her look. “Voyager is far more advanced, and more capable of protecting itself against the Collective. Your skills may be obsolete.”

He smiled, held it even when she didn’t return it. This was his first real conversation with someone Hugh was becoming close to. He wanted to get it right. “They’ll hold us over till Hugh and I get home.”

“Yes.” Stab. “ _Your_ home.” She held the gel pack up to the light. Geordi’s VISOR picked up new bits of red and orange light pulsing through the blue base. “It would be easier for Hugh to adjust to this ship,” she said without taking her eyes off the pack.

He said lightly, “Not really my choice, is it? Temporal Prime Directive and all.”

Seven of Nine did not look like she cared about the Temporal Prime Directive. She put the gel pack down. “This one is finished. I’ll return later to check on the nanoprobes’ process.”

“Sounds good,” said Geordi, although she obviously hadn’t been asking his permission. He scratched the back of his head and watched her go.

*

He saw little of Seven over the next two days and therefore he saw little of Hugh, who was always either regenerating or looking at assimilation data with her in Astrometrics. The times they did meet Hugh was damn near chatty with all he was working on. Geordi listened and asked questions and once had the computer play jazz in his quarters again and they enjoyed it, just them two.

There was no sign of the Borg and privately Geordi felt some of the urgency wane, not that he wanted it to. _Don’t get used to it here,_ he told himself. _Soon as we can we’re going home._

So when the captain called him down to Cargo Bay 2 it was a relief. Maybe finally they’d get some answers.

He met Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay outside the cargo bay, the two aliens shadowing behind with boxy brown scanners strapped to their wrists. Geordi’d seen little of them, either; apparently they spent most of their time hovering outside Astrometrics, wanting to talk to Seven about her implants. After his attempt at conversation with her, somehow he doubted they’d had much luck.

(And once, wanting to run his latest converter design past Seven to ensure nanoprobe compatibility, he’d gone to Astrometrics himself, and lingered in the doorway after, watching. Variations on a theme of horror played over the viewscreen, Seven and Hugh moving beneath it in tandem, taking notes and replaying moments, although Geordi couldn’t tell why they chose to linger on some scenes over others. It all looked like the same hell to him. The two former drones never spoke to each other, not while Geordi was there anyway, as if some remnant of Borg telepathy still linked them together. And Hugh never paced, never got that tense look on his face like everything around him was foreign and confusing. Never stood idle, peering after strangers.

Geordi opened his mouth to say – what? That Hugh should remember to take a break? That outside this room it was worth the effort to verbalize, because he’d need to when they got home? Anything Geordi could say then would be an interruption. And he didn’t think he’d handle it well if Hugh gave him Seven’s same impatient stare.)

Seven joined them now, and behind her were Lieutenants Paris and Torres and Commander Tuvok, and Hugh. The captain had asked for him and Seven specifically.

Xaw fixed his eyes on Hugh and kept them there. “Well so,” he said. “May we find riches inside!”

“I’d settle for Borg battle plans,” Commander Chakotay said. Paris ran his tricorder past the closed doors to the cargo bay, checking for tachyon radiation, then gave a thumb’s up and pressed the access panel. The doors opened to a pile of foreboding refuse scattered clear across the room.

Clearly everyone but Geordi had experience picking through Borg debris. Xaw and Xor clicked their scanners on and took off into the depths; the captain waited until they were out of earshot to say, “We’ve agreed nothing leaves this room until we’ve all had a chance to look at it.”

Tuvok said, “I will wait by the door to ensure all parties remember that agreement.”

“Everyone else, spread out and start digging,” she said. “Remember, we’re looking for anything out of the ordinary.”

“Out of the ordinary for a Borg ship?” Tom muttered. “This stuff gives me the creeps.”

Geordi grunted his agreement. Hugh moved off towards a bunch of metal beams.

For a while it was quiet, save for occasional thuds and clangs as people shifted through the wreckage. Geordi set his tricorder to wide-range scan and let it direct him. Paris wasn’t wrong about the vibes the debris gave off; none of it could possibly still be active but half of it still felt like it was watching. The jagged edges of the metal he passed suggested a huge force had ripped through the cube, or whatever it’d been. But the outward curve to much of the damage implied an explosion from within. His tricorder beeped by a large, long chunk and he knelt for a closer look. There was so much radiation coming off it still that he didn’t dare touch it directly.

“The core of something?” he mused. Nothing else he’d seen was still this loaded with tachyon residue. And the patterns formed by the tachyon particles in his VISOR were interesting: a directed, outward swoop. Close up, Geordi spotted a discoloration on the metal, which was another clue – it took a lot of energy, warp-core-level energy, to imprint visibly that way. But no warp core Geordi had ever seen fed its output directly onto metal framework. The structure would melt and buckle after a week of warp one. Besides, the Borg didn’t use warp cores.

Then he thought of the mysterious tractor beam as it had looked at the very end – narrow and highly focused, drenching the shuttle in tachyon radiation. And the metal of this structure, titanium alloy, blatant Borg design.

“The core!” he said. The core of a tractor beam capable of ripping straight through quadrants, straight through _time_.

“Find something?”

Captain Janeway picked her way over. He straightened up as she neared.

“I think I know what all this is,” he said. “The energy beam that brought us here...I think this was it. Or part of it. I don’t see anything here that could generate the level of power that beam would need to reach as far as it did, and there isn’t enough rubble...”

Torres called, “It’s a relay station.” She stepped from behind the large chunk. “I found pieces over there that look like drone interplexing beacons on an enormous scale.”

“A series of relay stations, funneling energy, directing and enhancing the beam...” Geordi thought furiously. “That’s how they locked onto us from so far away. I couldn’t figure out what device could be strong enough – but they weren’t using _one_ device. And I bet if you compare the signal those interplexing beacons are giving off with the one Hugh’s beacon gave off, it’d match. That’s how they found us.”

“I’ll get the Doctor to check,” Torres said. Geordi was hardly listening.

“The Borg already know how to cut through our shields, that’s why we had such trouble keeping the beam off...but look at the damage here.”

“Outwards,” said Torres. “One of the relay stations buckled under the energy flow, and that’s what we’re looking at. A blown fuse.”

“Wonder where we would have ended up if it didn’t blow,” Geordi said.

“They use transwarp conduits to travel,” said Janeway. Her eyes were bright with the thrill of discovery, however unpleasant a discovery it was. “And Seven said they can create temporal vortexes under specific conditions. So they combine the two technologies, feed them through a series of relays...”

“And they have a time-space tractor beam. Granted one with a few bugs in it.”

Torres nudged a stray piece of metal with her boot. “So what happens when they work out the bugs?” she asked.

“What happens,” replied the captain, “is that we’re in trouble.”

Then from across the room Tom Paris called, “Captain, we’ve got a body over here.”

He was running his tricorder over the corpse when they got there, with Commander Chakotay and Xaw watching. Seven was scanning metal fragments nearby. When Captain Janeway neared, Chakotay nodded at Xaw. “He found it.”

“Yes,” said Xaw, “a full body, all intact. But not so valuable once they’re dead. Everything stops working, difficult to reboot. Too bad!”

“Heartbreaking,” said Janeway, giving Chakotay a look.

He understood perfectly and stepped around her to Xaw. “I saw some working equipment over here you might be interested in,” he said, smoothly maneuvering the scavenger elsewhere.

“Well so! Let me see...”

As their voices fell away Geordi studied the dead drone. It looked like they all did, except this one had implants jutting out of both eyes _and_ its mouth, grotesque clutter in a mangled face. Paris caught his eye and grimaced. “Gross, huh?”

“Definitely not my aesthetic.”

Captain Janeway called, “Geordi, Tom,” and motioned them over. They joined her and Torres, and the captain asked, “So what do we think killed it?”

“Not sure,” Paris said. “Asphyxiation, maybe? Sheer ugliness?”

“No burn marks on him,” Geordi noted. “Must have died before the explosion.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hugh approach the body and stare down at it. Janeway ran a finger over her combadge, nudging it out of place and back. “This level of invention feels like too much work to recapture Hugh and Seven. I wonder...if that drone was assigned to this relay station it must have information on the station’s full purpose. It probably has all the answers we need.”

“Too bad it’s dead,” Paris said. “Took its secrets to Borg hell.”

Torres’ eyes widened. “Maybe not. These things are mostly machines! And we know their memories get stored and shared from drone to drone. You don’t lose data when a computer crashes so long as you’ve backed it up, and the Borg are one mass back-up. The memory engrams must still be accessible somewhere in its systems.”

Janeway said, excited, “If we can access those systems, we’ll access information on the relays, the tractor beam, the temporal vortexes – maybe even what they’re _doing_ with all of it. B’Elanna, fill the Doctor in, tell him to take the drone apart piece by piece until he finds what we—”

“Don’t.”

She stopped, surprised. Everyone turned around. Commander Chakotay, appearing Xaw-less near Seven, paused in place en route to join them.

From his position by the body, Hugh looked back at them all, but it was Geordi his gaze lingered on longest. “You should not,” he said, quietly.

Janeway frowned. “Mind telling me why not?”

“It is...it is in error. Not the protocol.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m going to need a little more than Borg protocol to...”

“Not Borg protocol. Federation. Human. Yours. You do not do this to the dead.”

Behind Geordi B’Elanna Torres bristled. “We’re talking about a _dead drone_ here. And the information it’s got could save all our lives, yours included.”

“No.”

“Come on,” Tom said. “Do we really need to worry about Borg mourning rituals? Hell, they dissect their own dead, they’d probably cheer us on.”

Hugh was strained but unflinching. Janeway quieted her crew with a gesture. She and Chakotay shared another glance before she said more gently, “He _is_ right, Hugh. We’ve never grieved much for lost drones before...”

“I am a drone,” Hugh said stubbornly. “So is Seven of Nine, and Icheb. If Seven of Nine dies, will you take her apart? Study her memory engrams?”

Seven glanced up from her scanning. Geordi said, “Hugh, that’s totally different. You’re individuals, with free will and people who care about you.”

The expression on Hugh’s face wasn’t _hurt_ , exactly. More resigned. Like Geordi had failed to vault that distance between them after all, and fallen a million miles down.

He looked away, back down at the corpse. “Maybe he had people who cared about him. Maybe they still care about him. Maybe not. Maybe they were all assimilated too.”

“Hugh...”

“My friend Geordi made me an individual because my ship crashed. The Brunali Icheb’s ship malfunctioned. Seven of Nine was sent by the Borg and you kept her here, Captain.” Now his eye fixed on Janeway’s. “These things were by chance. If they had not happened you would never have found us. We would never be individuals and when we died maybe you would use us for parts.”

Footsteps: Tuvok approaching, brought over by the raised voices. Hugh sounded almost mournful now. Again his gaze dropped to the body, as if there was no one alive who was fit to hold his interest.

“He is still Borg because _no one helped him_ ,” he said. “He had no friends or – or _family_. He never knew he could be anything else. We knew once we met our friend Geordi. All the Borg could be individuals if they had friends.”

Paris said, exasperated, “You can’t expect us to rescue the entire Borg Collective.”

“No. But this is a – a guilty thing, that we cannot.”

“Guilty? Who’s guilty?” Paris protested, “The Borg are the bad guys, remember? That whole ‘multi-species genocide’ thing?”

Hugh stared him down. “Yes,” he said. “Unlike the Federation Starfleet who put a virus in a drone to destroy the whole Collective.”

The pained look that flashed across the captain’s face matched Geordi’s own.

Commander Chakotay said, “Seven, we’ve used Borg parts before. You’ve never raised an issue.”

She tilted her head. “I am not Hugh,” she said.

“The Collective is a danger to others,” said Hugh. “It is not wrong to fight them. Many resist and die. Maybe this is even the better way, to die.”

Geordi’s heart leaped and then froze. “Don’t say that! You know that’s not true.” His throat hurt. He saw Hugh as he’d seen him the very first time, unconscious and bloody on a biobed in the brig. “One and only Hugh, remember?”

“You would rather die than be assimilated. You said so.”

“Yeah – well – maybe if I knew I had the smallest chance of getting through it, of seeing my friends again – maybe then I’d...with death there’s _no_ chance!”

Hugh nodded. “The smallest chance. And if it does not work you die as a drone. Like him. And everyone calls you _it_.”

Seven of Nine snapped her tricorder shut with a noisy echo and walked off.

Captain Janeway looked at the body, at the ceiling, at her first officer. Whatever silent conversation they had then, Geordi couldn’t read. Finally she said, “You’re right, Hugh. He’s as much a victim of the Borg as you were, and it’s wrong of us to forget that.”

Hugh said nothing. Just stood there waiting.

“How about this,” she said. “We can ask the Doctor to scan his implants for information, see what we can learn that way. Be as non-invasive as we can. The safety of my crew isn’t negotiable, Hugh, and that includes yours. But I promise we’ll do only as much as we have to, to get answers. No butchery.” She smiled faintly. “I don’t think Seven would begrudge us that, in a worst case scenario. If we learn what species he is we can try to find out about their funeral customs. Otherwise, on Starfleet ships, we conduct space burials for lost crew. Does that sound all right?”

“Yes,” said Hugh. “It is acceptable.” He glanced at Geordi, then walked away, out of the cargo bay, a trail of awkward silence in his wake.

Torres said, “What was that about?”

Janeway put her hand to her forehead and held it there. “B’Elanna, go find the Doctor,” she said wearily.

“Yes, Captain.”

Tom Paris said, with guilty bluster, “All I’m saying is Hugh’s way more into community organizing than any ex-Borg I’ve ever met.”

“You have not met many,” Tuvok interjected. “There is logic to his view. The vast majority of cultures demand respect for the dead, no doubt including the one this drone was stolen from.”

Janeway dropped her hand. “I’ve had enough Borg morality for one day. Chakotay, Tuvok, go find our guests and tell them we’re done poking around.”

There was such sympathy in her eyes when she looked at Geordi. “You’d better go after him,” she said. And all too eager to get the hell out of Borg storage, he did.

*

His mind was so awhirl – with fear for Hugh, and anger at him, and underpinning it all a deep, sick panic – that he almost rushed past Seven of Nine without noticing. She was in the hallway just outside the cargo bay, with a cart of implements she’d taken out of the room in disinterested defiance of the captain’s deal with the scavengers. None of the pieces were recognizable to Geordi, but what had been fascinating two days ago was enough to turn his stomach now. She ran her tricorder over each piece in turn, maybe cataloging them. She seemed perfectly unruffled.

He said to her back, “Can I ask you something?” and she glanced over her shoulder.

“He went to regenerate,” she said.

“Was all that...did he get all that from you?”

“Did he get all what from me?”

“All that Borg liberation stuff! He doesn’t want his implants out, he’s seeing himself in random drones...”

“And that disturbs you,” she said.

“Imagine if that was any captain but Janeway on any other ship in the fleet, hearing him say he’s no different than any other drone. They’d open fire!”

“That’s meant to reflect poorly on him?”

“Of course not, what I _meant_ was...there’s _risk_ here, the Borg are an _enemy_ , and his best hope of staying safe is if people stop thinking he is one!”

Seven lifted one eyebrow long enough to convey the sheer scope of her disdain, and the way she tapped her metal-lined fingers against the cart suggested she didn’t need to be reminded of the danger of the Borg. “You claim to be his closest friend and yet you give him little credit,” she said. “He doesn’t need my help to have ideas you dislike.”

“So forget moving on, he should just own the Borg label like it’s healthy? Maybe _you_ can explain that to the admirals if it makes so much sense to you.”

Seven said, “It doesn’t. He’s being foolish and short-sighted.” She walked over to the computer display on the wall behind Geordi, coming so close he had to pull his shoulder back lest she bang into it. He fumed as she activated the screen and began typing commands, and she felt it, because at last she turned and speared him with a frown.

“You are distracting me,” she said.

“You’re confusing me! Weren’t you just saying...”

“Using Borg components is rational and efficient. It’s the superior technology. Whether we strip the corpse for parts or they do makes no difference to the corpse and could make a great deal of difference for us. Any other consideration is irrelevant sentimentality.”

“Yes! Right! Exactly! So maybe you could tell Hugh that.”

“Individuals are often irrational and sentimental,” she said. “Perhaps you should be celebrating his progress as one instead of trying to control him.”

“I’m not...” He trailed off. He could tell how he was coming off to her, and he didn’t like what she was seeing.

“His opinions in this situation are unwise. The Collective will not thank him for them. And they could, as you said, get him shot.” Seven’s voice was a knife-edge. “You gave him the ability to make choices, Commander. If you wanted to make them for him you should have left him as Third of Five.”

Geordi said, “Third of Five was a prisoner. I’m not going to let anyone ever do that to him again.”

The computer flashed for new input. Without looking Seven hit a button to freeze the screen. “You are the same as Captain Janeway,” she commented. “You feel responsible. You feel you have to defend us as individuals. If we make poor choices, if we _disappoint_ you, your task is that much harder.”

“Responsible? OK, sure, I feel responsible. I’m the one who almost infected him. I’m the one who gave him a name. He decided to stay on the Enterprise because of me.”

“Irrational and sentimental,” Seven said. “Like Captain Janeway.”

“What?”

“Individuals are so self-centered. They must be the hero of every story.”

“When the alternative is no self at all? You bet we’re self-centered.”

Her eyes narrowed beneath the ridge of her implant. “Hugh should stay here,” she said, a non-sequitur that cut him off at the knees and heart.

“And how do you figure _that_?”

“Borg space is in the Delta Quadrant. In all likelihood Voyager will be in this quadrant for another sixty years, and will come into contact with far more drones than you will.”

“That’s a good thing?”

“For someone who wants to be with those who can understand him, yes. Icheb and I are here. Commander Chakotay once spent time with a collective of liberated drones, Voyager has helped free Borg cubes...there are others like him, but not in the Alpha Quadrant. He might decide his place is with his own people, rather than with you pretending he has none.”

“His home is the Enterprise ten years ago, same as me.”

“Where he will be alone.”

“He’s not alone.”

Irritated Seven folded her arms behind her back. “You, Captain Janeway...you are outliers. More often others will act as Icheb’s parents did.”

“Icheb’s parents?”

“Your selfish affections are distracting you. What is stopping a Starfleet admiral from following through with your virus plan?”

“The rule of law, for one.”

“Which will be of little help to Hugh once his cortical node has been corrupted. If you truly want him to be safe he should stay with _us_. We can protect him here.”

This, Geordi realized, was turning personal on both sides. “Now who’s making choices for him?” he demanded.

“Ask him,” she said icily. “You might find he is not your responsibility, and you are not his center.”

Geordi was speechless. His first and only urge was to get as far away from that idea, from Seven, as possible, and to that end he got halfway down the hallway before the first cognizant thought bubbled up past the waves of denial and doubt. Even then he was tempted to ignore it.

Seven of Nine was back at the cart, with the Borg tech she handled so calmly. He called to her, “So why did you stay with Captain Janeway if she’s so irrational? Why aren’t you with your people?”

He thought she would ignore him. But instead she said, “I am,” and pushed the cart out of sight.

*

Geordi spent the whole trudge hoping he’d find the regeneration bays empty, or that Icheb would be there too. But this was not a day for luck: the only one there was Hugh, eye shut and body stilled within an alcove. Geordi sat himself down at the far end of the steps leading up to the bays. He knew he was given sometimes to stewing over lousy situations – sometimes nothing fit a situation better than a good sulk while the computer ran algorithmic solutions in the background. But there were no algorithms to solve this.

He thought of Seven more than Hugh just then. She was like his friend – the same aggressor-victim, dependent on the same good nature of her rescuers, subject to the same stupid fears of others. She must have been through the same shipboard battles, maybe even worse because her personality was so much more thorny than Hugh’s. He thought of her matching up to B’Elanna Torres’ temper or Tom Paris’ snark. Plus, Captain Picard avoided Hugh, but Seven had the opposite problem, with a captain who was involved to a fault – that _you feel responsible_ was obviously a pressure point she’d been nursing a long while. So which situation was better? Which healthier?

 _A friend helping a friend,_ he thought. _That’s all_ _this is_ _. A friend_ _who’s still learning what friends_ are _. A friend who has no idea how I...or wh_ _y_ _I…_

Because that was another part of it, and again Geordi’s thoughts went to Seven. Hugh called her Seven of Nine to start, the Borg designation coming easiest to him, but more and more he called her Seven because that was what she’d said she preferred, and he took the use of names so seriously. Names and classifications...the position of a body in the universe…

And it was wrong to call Geordi’s feelings merely _friendly_ , now, wasn’t it?

It was the same risk as with Hugh’s implants. Geordi could take advantage of that credulousness in a million ways. Could tell him that you always put your friend before yourself, or that you never told your friend no. Could tell him other, darker things he didn’t even want to think about, and it didn’t matter that Hugh had the physical strength of three Worfs. _Selfish affect_ _ion_ _s_ , Seven had accused him of, and was she wrong?

Seven didn’t come across as...fragile as Hugh did. You didn’t get the sense she had trouble saying no. On the other hand Hugh was desperate for facts and place. He hadn’t yet reached a point where he could argue the answers he was given.

Or, wait. Hadn’t he? Wasn’t that what he was doing in Sickbay, and with the dead drone? He was a fully fledged person with opinions all his own. Oh, Geordi was going in circles again.

He pressed his hands to the VISOR ports on either side of his head and groaned. He was an engineer, not a ship’s counselor. He’d never been any good at relationships!

And when the alcove lights clicked off with a chirp and Hugh stirred, ignoring the computer’s “Regeneration cycle incomplete,” that was how he found Geordi: sitting grumpy and uncomfortable on the steps with a headache freshly forming, not even sure what he was upset about. Not the greatest way to begin a chat.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Geordi asked.

Hugh stepped out of the alcove, feet clanking against the metal, and eyed him. “Geordi is angry,” he said after a moment, and this time it wasn’t a question.

“No, but what happened in the cargo bay – I want to make sure you’re in the best position possible, for your own sake, and back there...”

“Yes,” said Hugh. “You have said.” He clumped past Geordi down the stairs. “There is work. It would be inefficient to repeat conversation.”

Hell of a brush-off. “Come on,” Geordi said. “Don’t pull that.”

“I am not pulling anything.”

“You’re ignoring me! That’s a Seven of Nine trick right there.”

“No. It is a _Borg_ trick.”

Geordi stood up. “I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself. I am. But I’m worried about this...I don’t know...this _attachment_. The implants, and talking about that dead Borg like it was the same as you, when it _wasn’t_ , Hugh. Look at how far you’ve come. You’re not a mindless drone.”

“I am Borg.”

“You’re not! I keep telling you! And drones aren’t your responsibility! You’re thinking in _we_ instead of _I_ again, and I know it’s hard, but—”

“Geordi!” At the lift to Hugh’s voice Geordi faltered. Hugh came towards him, got quite near, until Geordi could see the way the muscles in his neck were corded tight. If he wanted to he could have reached out and taken off Hugh’s eyepiece. That was how close they were.

“Verbal is hard,” said Hugh, “but please listen. You are my...you are very much my friend. My other. But you wish me not to be Borg now, and I _am_.”

“Just because you _were_ one of them...because you look like one of them...”

“I am still. It is not a choice. And if it was we would still choose – _I_ would still choose this. I do not wish to be like the commander Data. One and only Hugh is good. Not one and only _like_ Hugh.”

He understood it, he really did, but fear made him pretend otherwise. Fear for the end of a future Geordi was only realizing now he hadn’t thought too much about. Get back to the right time and space. Convince the admirals. Stay with Hugh for...well. Just stay with Hugh. Until the next assignment change, the next crew rotation. And then what? Would Hugh tag after him forever, only as accepted as Geordi could convince the next set of commanding officers?

He understood it, but he couldn't accept it. Not after all he'd seen of the Borg.

“No one back home is going to understand you wanting to defend your Borg heritage,” he said. “We’re ten years from Seven’s rescue, and in the wrong place.”

“Federation is the wrong place? Starfleet is the wrong place? For accepting Borg who are free?”

It could have been B’Elanna’s retort, or Seven’s, but it was coming from Hugh, and that made it worse.

“In my experience? Most of the galaxy would be the wrong place,” he snapped. “‘Free Borg’ is an _oxymoron_ , Hugh. No one is going to want...”

“Not even my friend Geordi?”

Geordi said, “I want you to be safe.”

Hugh began to pace.

“It is not enough!” he said. “Not enough, Geordi! You do not understand how it is to be Borg and alone. When the others died on my ship, we felt it. Even apart from the Collective we felt it. _I_ will always feel it. No voices, no commands – but a pain – a lessening—”

“Maybe if you removed the rest of the implants—”

“No! Even then! I cannot stop being Borg that way! Every day drones die and they do not even _know_...not even the other Borg care.” Frustrated he said, “If you could hear my thoughts and theirs you would understand already and we would not need to have _conversation_.”

“Well, I can’t, so we do. So _try_.”

“I think there can be new Borg now, Geordi, who are not a threat. Who are free. Who have their others who will not hurt them, who will learn together about choice and boredom and speaking and music. Samarian Sunsets. Maybe for Borg after me it can be together and not so hard.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But I’m not willing to lose you for the sake of a maybe. If that makes me selfish,” (and he was speaking to Seven now more than Hugh) “then I’m selfish.”

Hugh’s false fingers clenched. Anger, Geordi thought, yet another thing the Collective had no experience with.

Aloud he said, _“_ How would you even begin to rescue anyone else without being reassimilated? You don’t have a collective strength anymore, remember? You’re just one guy.”

Hugh ignored this. _“_ You are Human and you have your others already,” he said. “You do not know how small one drone is in the universe, how lonely it is every day for us. You do not need to help me.”

“That’s unfair. I _want_ to help you. I disobeyed a direct order chasing after you on that shuttle! We get back and you’ll have to fight for free Geordi ‘cause he’ll be facing a court martial.”

“I did not ask you to.”

“I think your go-to is _irrelevant_. Hugh!” Geordi snagged him by the wrist, held him there. The memory of the other night came rushing back, a cruel mirroring, and nonsensically he was almost tempted to admit...if he could convince himself it would be fair, to either of them…he had the wild idea that it would help him explain what was happening here, the depth of Geordi’s worry and his love…

But the Doctor interrupted.

“Hugh the scofflaw to Sickbay,” he called over the comms. “I told you to come by for a checkup at the two-day mark, didn’t I?”

And almost at the same time Geordi’s combadge clicked: Torres, with the captain’s approval on the shield modifications and impatience to get started. Geordi said he’d be right there and cut the channel. He turned to stare at the regeneration bays, to catch his breath. He _hadn’t_ meant to start a fight here.

“Work,” Hugh said to his back.

“Yeah.” He could have said, _I’ll come b_ _ack_ _later_. He could have said, _I’m scared, not mad._ He could have said, _I_ _f this is the cause you take up_ _, what does that mean for you? For us? Fuck, Hugh, you wouldn’t even know what I meant by_ us _. And you have enough pronoun trouble already. I can’t give you more._

He could have said any of that, but in the end he said nothing – he didn’t have a chance. He fought his traitor tongue for several seconds, and when he turned back around Hugh had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -taps mic- Voyager’s rush to deBorg Seven of Nine and turn her from cool cyborg to Sexy Blonde Lady is less about what works best for the storyline and more about R* B*’s need to see her in skintight spandex at all times, which leaves us with a canon in which Janeway makes massive medical decisions on behalf of someone who very much would not have made the same decisions for herself if anyone had bothered to ask her, which is lame, and also less cool because cyborgs are cool. This is not to say Geordi’s insistence that Hugh needs his implants out is coming from a bad place – he wants to help! And as someone whose only other direct Borg contact until recently has been Captain “get this gunk off me and never speak of this again” Picard he thinks this is what his friend needs to heal and probably he’s even right, but I think it’s important that Hugh has the agency to decide for himself what body mods he has. (And add on to this all the times Voyager raided dead drones for replacement parts.) 
> 
> Also my understanding is the Borg costumes are massively uncomfortable but I have no such limitations here. Hah! The point is if you were wondering why Hugh was still all exoplated and wired so many chapters in, this is it. Mostly because it’s cool. Borg costumes are SO COOL I want to be a Borg someone stick a big tube through my face.
> 
> Anyway I hope you all enjoyed this very long chapter, if you need me I will be here overthinking canon's complicated handling of Borg bodily autonomy.


	15. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He went to the mess hall to hear voices and see the stars and think. This was how many individuals handled troubling situations, he had come to notice. This was what you had to do when you had to make a solution all on your own, though you were lonely and confused. Somehow seeing the stars helped."

_Chapter Thirteen_

_(in which Hugh turns to the Voyager romance brain trust for advice)_

He was seeing faces in his sleep, even more than on the Enterprise. Smiling faces. Blank-eyed faces with many, many eyes but no mouths, faces that never spoke to him. It was very bad to be with those who would not speak in his mind or even with their voices. Worse, he decided, than being alone completely. There were also bright lights and whirring tools, drooping lumps of flesh. There were also glimpses of the Queen. The crews of Voyager and Enterprise shifted into damaged drones with broken wings. Geordi was never there.

The captain Janeway had asked that Hugh report any further interactions with the Queen. So he went to her captain’s room and told her. She listened and said after, “Thank you for telling me, Hugh. It sounds like these may not be actual communications. They sound more like bad dreams.”

“Yes,” he said. Bad dreams. The counselor Troi had said.

“Before you go,” Janeway said, and picked something off of her desk. A badge like the ones the others wore. “This is an easier way for us to keep track of one another,” she said with a pointed look at her door.

Geordi had repaired the door. Hugh took the badge anyway.

It was small and fragile in his prosthetic fingers. She said, “Hm. We can get you an armband to pin it to, maybe? Would that be all right?”

He held the badge to his left shoulder and pressed it there. Concentrated. The implants and mechanisms that were his body (for his body was not like the captain Janeway’s, not like his friend Geordi’s) listened. The exoplating on his shoulder shifted, softened, pulled in and pressed down on the edges of the badge, leaving the front with its Starfleet symbol at a slight lift. The node beneath adapted, connecting to the new device. There would be no need to touch the badge to answer it, as he had seen the others do.

The captain Janeway said, “That works.”

“Yes,” said Hugh, because of course it did. Everything about him worked as it was designed, except for the troublesome parts that the Collective had not given him. The parts he could not see which made him say things that troubled Geordi. Which made him look down at the dead drone on Voyager and think irrelevant thoughts such as, _I wish_ _it_ _had a name_.

He saw the captain had other things she wished to discuss. His implants, and the drone, and the things he had said in the cargo bay. These were things he could not further explain – he had said it all already and yet even his friend Geordi could not understand. Janeway started to speak but instead he asked to go, and she was startled by his politeness into nodding. He went out onto the bridge, where he did not need guards, and the commander Chakotay smiled and said, “Looking good, Hugh. No escaping us now.”

By now Hugh understood about jokes. Friendly banter. He thought of what the Collective would say about banter: inefficient mode of communication. High risk of communication error. Irrelevant social structure. But the Collective had never interacted as an individual. Therefore the whole reasoning was flawed.

Many things were flawed. Individuality. Hugh existing as Hugh. The act of friendship. The specific friendship with Geordi, whom he had carefully not seen yet this day. Maybe the others noticed this, or maybe only Seven of Nine did, and Seven of Nine said nothing about it. He knew that unlike the captain she would not want to discuss what he had done in the cargo bay, that it would make her uncomfortable – and so this morning they had worked silently together and it was even a relief. It could almost be like on a Borg ship with her, even though it was quiet, even though she hated chatter where he found it reassuring. Even despite his dreams.

He did ask her about another flaw. There was something like burning beneath his chest plate, and he wondered if he was adapting poorly to the removal of the tracker implants. Seven said that was not the case. She said the Doctor would call this burning sensation _nerves_.

Icheb had been there also, helping with the work, and he said, “All this tension is making you nervous. You should _talk_ to Commander La Forge.”

But Hugh was not ready for that yet. He knew that damaged drones and cubes could be repaired but he was not sure yet if one could repair a damaged friendship. And if one couldn’t, then the alternative was to dismantle and remove it, and this he could not do. He could not talk to Geordi until he was sure.

How did one adapt to nerves?

Hugh stepped off the bridge into the turbolift and went down two levels. On the second level the lift stopped and one of the Xet came inside. Hugh knew them as Species 611 but he did not know this individual Xet at all. He did not think he wished to. The alien did not seem afraid of him but he would also not stop looking at him without blinking. Then he said, “A _complete_ neural-implant system?” but he did not seem to say it to Hugh, and did not seem to want an answer. That was worse than _no_ voices, being talked about but not to.

Hugh got off on the next level. He went back to Astrometrics, where Seven of Nine waited with a discovery.

They had considered all the available assimilation data and found nothing unexpected. Seven decided their methods were inaccurate: instead of looking at each individual assimilation it would be better to look at the data as a whole. On the macro level, perhaps there was a pattern. And while he had been with the captain, she had been proving that was so.

“Four areas without any records of recent assimilation,” she said, bringing up the points plotted on a star map stretched across the screen. The computer zoomed out to show the wide sprawl of each gap. “Each approximately the same significant size and each containing multiple warp-capable worlds. There have been no encounters with the Collective in any of these regions for six months. Yet the Borg are active throughout this sector.”

“Perhaps they are not interested in these places.”

“I’ve never known the Borg to be so picky.”

It was true. Hugh thought about it. It still felt unnatural to have to come to answers on his own, when in the Collective the question would have been fed through a billion minds. A billion beings would be here right now, considering a billion angles, and his such a _small_ part of the whole.

“The Collective is avoiding those regions?” he asked. “If there are no encounters, are there no cubes?”

Seven of Nine checked the data. “Cubes have been seen entering,” she noted with some surprise. “Attempts to investigate their gathering sites have not been successful. Any approaching probes or ships are destroyed.”

“Destroyed. Not assimilated.” Hugh said, “The drones in these areas are not focused on assimilating new technologies.”

“Apparently not.”

“There is something else they want. And they do not wish others to know of it.”

“There is nothing else drones want. Assimilation is the only goal.”

“Perfection is the only goal,” Hugh said. “Then this is another way of achieving it. Could the Collective change in that way?”

Seven of Nine, who had met the Queen before and found her to be not as expected, allowed that it could.

“This is...unusual behavior,” Hugh suggested. “The kind the captain Janeway asked for?”

“Yes,” she said. She moved to a computer terminal further back in the room, bringing up various probe configurations. Hugh went over to watch.

“You will send another probe,” he said. “One emitting Borg frequencies so it will not be destroyed.”

She nodded. “I will inform the captain. Meanwhile you can assist Lieutenant Torres and Commander La Forge. They are ready to bring the new shield systems online.”

Hugh kept still and focused on her probe design. Her gaze went from her screen to his face to his fused combadge. Without her exoplating she’d had to pin it like the rest of them. Maybe she thought Hugh was foolish for not doing the same.

“You shouldn’t let your personal problems interfere with your duties,” she said.

“I am not letting them,” he answered, defensive.

“You are a poor liar.”

“Then I will practice more until I am _better_.” Speaking this way, with heat in his voice, was becoming easier, or at least he was doing more of it. Angry voices, lying, _nerves_ : was this what it really was, being an individual?

But it was also becoming easier to read the emotions of others, and Seven’s eyebrow lift was more amused than annoyed. She said after a moment, “He will not abandon you for one disagreement. He’s like Captain Janeway. Excruciatingly loyal.”

She made this sound like a bad thing with her words, but a good thing with her tone. Hugh wasn’t sure which one she intended to be true.

He asked, though this was surely _frivolous conversation_ , “Why are they like that? Not all individuals are this way.” Thinking of the admiral Nechayev, he added, “Not even all in Starfleet are this way.”

“No. But there is something about this ship, these people...they simply will not give up.”

“The Enterprise is the same,” said Hugh, and the burning in his chest was in a different way now. A pleasure instead of pain. Reaching into his limbs.

But Seven frowned. “Then you consider the Enterprise your home?”

He hesitated. Oh, to have her _hear_ him, without the need for these half-grasped words! But Seven of Nine, at least, would never show impatience. Even if the Collective had given her a full voice, she knew what it was like without one.

“I think...I think one day it could be,” was his uncertain answer at last. “I think right now I don’t have one. A home. But it is Geordi’s home, and Geordi is – my friend. So he can make one for me.”

“No doubt,” said Seven, and this time he could not read her tone at all.

“When we are done with personal problems,” he added, in case she was confused. “Once I learn how we are done with them. ...How are we done with them?”

Seven of Nine did not look like she _wished_ to smile, but one thing Hugh had learned was that an individual's body did not always care what the individual itself wished. This was apparently to be considered an accepted part of life and not a cause for self-diagnostics and possible termination.

So she smiled. Just on one side.

“Lieutenant Paris is an expert on lovers’ quarrels,” she said, dryly. “I am sure he’d have advice.”

Hugh was not sure what a lovers’ quarrel was. But before he could ask his combadge activated. It was the Doctor again.

“I’m about to start my scans of the drone. Captain Janeway thought you might like to keep tabs on the situation.”

Hugh was not sure what keeping tabs were, either. But he wanted to go, and Seven nodded like this was the correct choice, so he said, “Yes. I will go.”

As he was leaving Seven said, “When you return to the Enterprise you will have to stand up for yourself. Geordi will not be able to protect you from everything.”

“I know,” said Hugh. “Like this drone who cannot protect itself from anything. That is why it is important.”

Seven inclined her head and then turned back to her console. Words or no words, he knew she understood.

*

He went to the sickbay, although it took him two minutes and eight seconds longer than expected. This was because of the interruptions on the way, from others in the halls who wished to talk with him. The Talaxian Neelix, on his way to the mess hall, said he was making more nachos for dinner and this time Hugh simply had to try them, intestinal implants permitting of course. The crewman Mortimer Harran came up to him in great distress and demanded to know if the rumors were true that the Borg had already conceived of a solution to Schlezholt's Theory of Multiple Big Bangs. The captain’s assistant Naomi Wildman showed Hugh a picture she had drawn. It was of Hugh, and she said he could keep it if he wanted.

Although the picture was not technically accurate – Hugh’s eyepiece was not pink and he did not have spikes – he said that he did.

It was very different on Voyager than on the Enterprise, without guards, without shouts. But Geordi missed the Enterprise, perhaps as much as Hugh missed Geordi, so Voyager could not be home. For this too he would adapt.

In Sickbay the drone was laid out on a biobed. Captain Janeway was also there. She asked if he and Seven had made any progress, and he told her that they had. Her brows furrowed when she heard of the assimilation gaps and Seven’s probe. Then she looked at the drone and said, “I hope our friend here has more answers.”

“It’ll take some time to piece the memory engrams back together once I’ve isolated them,” the Doctor said. “Luckily Borg tech is designed to be compatible with foreign systems.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” said the captain. “Hugh, I wanted you to be here so you could see the process for yourself. I promise we aren’t doing anything unnecessarily cruel.”

“Yes,” said Hugh, thought a moment, added, “Thank you.” Captain Janeway patted his arm.

It was true that what the Doctor did was not cruel. It would have been easier to dismantle the drone and scan its individual parts, but the Doctor limited himself to careful removal of a few specific nodes. After the first moments Hugh did not watch the actual procedure much. He watched the droid instead, wondering…he did so much wondering these days, now that he knew how.

“I think this fellow was Malon once,” the Doctor announced.

Malon. And now it was a drone and looked just like Hugh. He tried to stop seeing himself in the faced lined with metalwork but could not, and perhaps that was the point. Perhaps he should have seen himself. This drone, bulky in its wires. It hardly had a face: if it had been rescued, how would it have learned to make expressions? The projecting eyepieces, jutting mouth tool and cog-layered arm suggested it had been a construction drone, used for building and repairs. Hugh had been a scout and so they differed some in function and design, but they’d shared the same mind once. Had been part of the same...family.

Not a good family. Not a kind one. Not like the one he had now. But this drone had no other. “ _Not_ drone,” Hugh reminded himself, and the captain Janeway glanced at him. He would need another word for what he and this one both were, and in that way they would still be family, and therefore Hugh’s better family could be shared. Therefore when it was buried in space, at least it would not be alone. And it would need a name.

The Doctor’s surgery took one hour, and there was only one bad part, when the other Xet came in. This Xet, unlike Hugh’s friend Geordi, had no trouble believing he was Borg: the alien peered at the dead Borg and at Hugh in the same hungry way, like they were both up on a bed, and burbled through his gill mouth. He offered the Doctor a trade for the body but instead the captain took him by the shoulders and turned him around.

“We’ll be keeping him,” she said. “But you’re welcome to what’s left in the cargo bay. If you’d like we can beam it right onto your ship.”

The Xet shrugged his wide shoulders. “Mostly not useful, well so, but we will take it and melt it down. Use it as building blocks for better things. More labor than working implants, of course!”

“Of course,” said Janeway. “I’ll have everything transported by the end of the day. I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your own ship.”

“Eager? Why eager? When your own contains such luxury. We don’t have anything like your mess hall on our ship.”

“Then you’d better get down there and have one last luxurious meal. Neelix will be happy to make you something for the road.”

“Well so...” The Xet tried to look over his shoulder, though this was difficult because of his lack of neck. “Shame to waste this technology, Captain. It could be very valuable for you. The live one especially. Smart to keep the implants in this time – there’s so little left on your Seven of Nine!”

The captain Janeway said in very cold tones, “This is a closed procedure. I’m going to need you to leave.”

Once the Xet was gone, she tapped her combadge. “Tuvok,” she said, “make sure our two guests are off this ship by twenty-three hundred.”

“Understood.”

She made a grimace at Hugh. “Sorry you had to hear that,” she said, but he was already focused back on the Borg.

“Guess we won’t be forming any new trade alliances today,” the Doctor said. He lowered his voice and added, “Good thing if you ask me. Last time those two were in here they shed all over my sickbay. I was picking loose scales off the carpet for hours.”

As the Doctor was finishing Seven of Nine called over the comm system for the captain. She said the modified probe was ready, but also that she had used Voyager’s long-range sensors to scan the nearest of the Borg-guarded regions, not so far from their current location, and found the same tachyon-particle buildup as had been in this debris field, and on the Enterprise shuttle. “I expect the probe will give us similar results,” she said.

“More relays,” Janeway said. “But they must have noticed this leg of the network is down. Why haven’t they come to repair it yet?”

“They may not feel the need.” Seven did not sound pleased. “I compared the presumed relay locations and extrapolated their focal-point. This particular branch was somewhat off course from the rest. I believe it achieved its function when it brought the shuttle here. It’s possible that had it not failed the shuttle would have been taken elsewhere in the Delta Quadrant, but the Borg move quickly. It will not be a hardship to locate what they’re after now that it’s here.”

“I wish you didn’t sound so sure of that,” the captain sighed.

“There is more. The remaining relays are still being added on to and maintained.”

“Maintained for what?”

“Assuming they possess the same capabilities for extreme distance, they are pointed directly at the Alpha Quadrant, Sector 001—”

“Earth,” said the captain. She was quiet a moment. Hugh watched her face change.

Then she said, “Doctor, how soon until those memory engrams are ready?”

“They’re encrypted down to an atomic level. I’d like at least a few days to—”

“You have twenty-four hours,” she said.

*

Then they were all very busy. Hugh did not even have time to worry about his friendship with Geordi. He did not even had time to regenerate. Seven’s probe was launched and undetected, and in this way confirmed the tachyon buildup at all four sites. It sent back grainy footage of one location that made everyone alarmed: many, many Borg cubes, and spheres, and a hulking black arch bigger than five cubes together, much bigger than what the debris they had found would have made. This relay was located the farthest from their current location, and looked the most guarded.

“Like hornets building a new nest,” said the lieutenant Paris.

“Could they be building a transwarp conduit?” the commander Chakotay asked. “One that opens up in the Alpha Quadrant?”

“I am unfamiliar with this device,” said Seven of Nine, and so was Hugh. The captain divided up all her crew and ordered them to work until there were answers. In this way they spent hours. In this way also there was no time to transport the debris to the Xet, so the two aliens remained on board to guard their debris. “We will be busy in the cargo bay cataloging everything,” the Xet Xaw promised. “You won’t even notice us, not at all.”

“We need to know everything about this arch,” the captain Janeway decided. “We’re nowhere near official Borg space. Why choose this place? Why now?”

The lieutenant commander Tuvok interjected, “Considering the number of Borg vessels at that location, I recommend we maintain a significant distance.”

“That’s the reasonable Vulcan way of saying maybe we’d better get the hell out of dodge,” the lieutenant Paris said with a grin. “They don’t seem too worried about tracking down Hugh and Geordi. Maybe they think they’re dead.”

“Or they don’t think they’re going anywhere,” said the commander Chakotay. “I don’t think we should be relieved the Borg aren’t in a hurry.”

“They might not be, but we are,” said Janeway.

This was how Starfleet ships ran: a chorus of individual voices and then the captain ordered, and though that one voice was no louder than any of the others still everyone else obeyed it. Yet there could be disagreements. A decision could be overruled. Inefficient choices could be argued for and selected. The chain of command here was full of cracks for Hugh to get stuck in, just as on the Enterprise, but he listened very carefully to Voyager’s crew and tried to track the reasoning or lack thereof. And then there was more work.

Sixteen hours seven minutes five seconds worth of work, to be precise. Tracking the probe, sending out new probes to the other sites, correlating and tabulating the data that they returned. Geordi and the lieutenant B’Elanna Torres were still making adjustments to the new shield systems, in Engineering where Hugh did not go. The lieutenant Paris took a nanoprobe-altered gel pack to the Delta Flyer, to test changing shield frequencies at advanced speeds. There were battle simulations for many crew members. The Doctor worked with the memory engrams, which even separate from the ex-drone itself demanded specific Borg access codes or else attempted to self-detonate. The captain Janeway discussed adding nanoprobes to a phaser rifle.

Hugh went to the mess hall.

He went after his sixteen hours seven minutes five seconds’ worth of work. They thought he was going to regenerate, as many had slipped away for food and drink and sleep. But Hugh had spent much time, too much time, away from his friend Geordi. Was his friend mad? Would his friend ever understand his concern for the ex-drone? This Hugh did not yet know. But to stay separate forever was not an acceptable choice. His function was to be with his other, and in all scenarios it was very difficult to keep a Borg drone from its function. Usually it required weapons fire.

He went to the mess hall to hear voices and see the stars and think. This was how many individuals handled troubling situations, he had come to notice. This was what you had to do when you had to make a solution all on your own, though you were lonely and confused. Somehow seeing the stars helped.

In the mess hall when he arrived were five individuals whose designations he did not know, all hunched over data padds with cooling plates of nutritional foodstuff at their elbows. None of them spoke, which was not acceptable: stars might have been enough for most individuals’ deep thinking, but Hugh required voices. So he turned to the kitchen area, where the Talaxian Neelix was humming a very off-key noise and chopping pieces of purple root.

Hugh stood quietly at the counter until Neelix noticed him. “Oh, hello there!” he said when he did. “Come for those nachos? I’ve made a few crucial adjustments to the recipe that really bring out the flavor of the Rolian cheese sauce.”

“I do not require solid nutrition,” said Hugh. “I require voices.”

“Voices? Hm, well.” Neelix scratched his head at the edge of his big yellow hat. “As moral officer I’d be happy to tell a story if that would help?”

Hugh was not sure. He was not sure how to begin to think this problem of his friend Geordi through. It was not one based on math, algorithms, science or adaptation. Neelix saw he felt troubled and said, “Has it been a long day?”

“All days are the same length according to Federation timekeeping.”

“Well, that’s true, but it doesn’t mean it can’t _feel_ long. Maybe a cup of hot tea? Even if you just hold it for a while. I always feel better after tea.”

Then the mess hall doors slid open and the lieutenant Tom Paris entered the room. He paused when he saw Hugh at the counter but after a moment continued over.

“I do not think, tea,” said Hugh, for whom this was a trial problem before he moved on to the greater one. “Samarian Sunset?”

“Samarian Sunset...erm, I’m afraid I don’t know that one off-hand,” said Neelix. “But I’m sure the replicators can whip one up.”

Paris reached them. “You can’t give a guy a _replicated_ Samarian Sunset,” he said. “There’d be no artistry, no spirit! A true Samarian Sunset needs the careful touch only a living bartender can bring.” He took a serving spoon and poked at one of the large bowls on the counter. “Speaking of artistry, you got any more of that Feragoit goulash left?”

“Sorry. Figured people would be too busy to stop by, only made a small batch. But give me ten minutes to soak the beans and I’ll make more.”

Neelix went to the back of the kitchen. Now it was just Hugh and the lieutenant Paris standing at the counter. Paris took a roll of bread out of a bowl and tapped it against the bowl’s rim. Then he cleared his throat.

“Look,” he said, “about what happened in the cargo bay...”

Hugh waited.

“I didn’t mean to come off as nasty or offensive or anything. You kinda took us all by surprise with that Borg identity stuff. But I get that it’s important to you, and I understand why it is.”

“Yes,” said Hugh. He remembered something. “Lovers’ quarrels,” he said.

“Huh?”

“You are good with lovers’ quarrels. Seven of Nine said. How are they repaired?”

“You have really got to stop talking to her about me – wait. Are you...asking me for relationship advice?”

“Yes,” said Hugh.

The lieutenant's eyes widened. He dropped the bread back into the bowl and slapped Hugh’s shoulder, which was odd. “This is about you and Geordi La Forge, right? I knew it. I _bet_ on it. And I think I can help you out. As an apology, how’s that?”

He went to a table and sat down, and Hugh followed. He too sat, although it took him far longer. “OK,” said Paris, “is this about the cargo bay? Because La Forge might be a little unhappy but I don’t think he’s going to ditch his best pal over it. Assuming...of course...that you’re his best pal?”

“Best pal?”

“You know. His very closest friend.”

Hugh thought about it. “The commander Data is his very closest friend. He has said.”

Paris’ eyes were now slits. “Then that makes you...”

“I do not _know_. There are many types of individuals outside the Borg.” In a corner one crewman was asleep with his forehead on the table; Hugh wished he could do the same, but he did not think he could bend that way. “Many do not even know Geordi. Many maybe he does not _like_. And now maybe we are, I am one of those. He is angry with me because I am Borg.”

“You’re looking at this all wrong,” said Paris, sounding confident, and then the doors opened again and the ensign Harry Kim stepped in. He saw Paris and Hugh, blinked, shrugged and came over.

“Hiya, Harry,” Paris said. “Hugh is learning the meaning of love, take a seat.”

“We are?” said Hugh.

The ensign Kim slumped down into a chair. _He_ had no trouble bending onto the table. Paris asked, “You alright?”

“Ten hours,” moaned Kim. “I’ve been working for ten hours.”

“Hey, Starfleet’s no place for slackers.”

“Easy for you to say! You spent all day playing with the Delta Flyer. You know what I’ve been doing? Collecting data from those probes, with Seven, and Tuvok.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me. Beats tripping over people in tactical training.”

“Seven and Tuvok _don’t talk_. I was there three hours, no one said a word. I tried asking what everyone thought the big arch thing was, just making some polite chitchat. You know what Tuvok said?” He sat up and deepened his voice. “ ‘There is no point in distracting ourselves with idle gossip, Ensign Kim. The results of our investigation will provide far more accurate answers.’ I snuck out to go dig around the Borg junk just to get away from their vow of _silence_.”

“I would not like to vow silence,” Hugh said.

“Tell me about it.” The ensign Kim blinked more rapidly. “Sorry, wait, are you – what was that about love?”

“You’ll love this goulash, is what!” The Talaxian Neelix arrived with a blue bowl full of brown-green plant life. “Mister Kim, can I get you a bowl?”

“No thanks. I’m covered in Borg dust, better wash up first.”

Paris poked his fork into the plants and then into his mouth. “No one told you to go play scavenger in the cargo hold,” he commented around the lump of food.

Neelix wrinkled his nose. “Are those two Xet still in there?”

“Yeah. Moving things around into piles, mostly,” Harry said. “I guess deciding what they’re keeping.”

“Borg garbage, makes great presents for the kids,” Paris said. “No offense,” he added to Hugh.

Neelix was still wrinkled. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I told the captain, on Talax everyone tried to avoid doing business with Xet scavengers. They never let an opportunity go, even if they have to stab you in the back for it.” He looked at Hugh. “You be careful around them,” he said.

“Never mind the Xet,” Paris said. “We’ve got bigger problems: love.”

Kim said, “No one better than you to explain the pitfalls of love, Tom. How many times did you strike out with the Delaney sisters again?”

“About three times less than _you_ did. Besides, that’s ancient history. There’s only been one wedding on this ship and it was yours truly holding the glass of honeymoon champagne.”

“It was also you who nearly got dumped mid space race.”

“Minor details, the point is my methods work.”

“Your method was hanging around looking pathetic until B’Elanna decided to take pity on you!”

“And it worked! Waiting for the right opportunity, Harry. That’s romance.”

Hugh said, “We wish to talk about _Geordi_ now.”

“So’s that.”

“Ooh!” said Neelix. “Wait, wait, wait. I have just the thing.” He went to the kitchen and returned without the hat and with a small bowl containing a pile of fat brown orbs. “Ancient Talaxian tradition for people caught in, shall we say, affairs of the heart. You and all your friends take a seed from the Jiballia tree – the tree of love and luck. You describe how you feel, and the good will of those who care about you sprouts and magnifies through the seeds, giving you the courage you need to find a way to your beloved.”

The lieutenant Paris took an orb from the bowl. “What do you do with the thing when you’re done, eat it?”

“Yes, actually.” Paris brought the orb to his mouth. “Of course, we don’t have any Jiballia seeds on board Voyager but Kaylo pits look very similar, I’ve always thought. And they’re only mildly toxic to Humanoids.”

Paris brought the orb away from his mouth.

Hugh’s eyepiece scanned each pit and found no evidence of any element called _luck_ or _love_. He did not tell Neelix this, however.

Kim said, “Maybe we should start at the beginning.” He smiled at Hugh. “This stuff is confusing for everyone, so don’t feel bad. Just walk us through what’s worrying you.”

“We are Borg,” said Hugh, and then corrected, “I am Borg,” because it was important now to be precise. “Geordi does not wish this for us, for me, but there is no other way. There are many Borg who need help like I did, but he does not want me to try.”

“And that upsets you,” Neelix said.

“Geordi is our friend! My friend. Without him what will become of me? I will be alone here. And he will be afraid of me like the others.”

The lieutenant Paris said, “The Borg scare people, sure. But he’s Starfleet. Which means he doesn’t scare easy.”

“Yeah,” said the ensign Kim. “He understands this is important to you, so he’ll come around.”

“No. He said. He said, ‘I’m not willing to lose you for a maybe.’ If we do this thing that upsets him he will go.”

The Talaxian Neelix said, “Oh, language can be so tricky sometimes, can’t it? Universal translator it’s _not_. You lose all the nuance!”

Kim said, “It doesn’t sound like Geordi was saying he won’t be your friend. He’s upset _because_ he’s your friend. He doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

Hugh cocked his head. “Clarify. How is this relevant, _hurt_?”

“Well,” said Neelix, “you must have felt the same way when he was injured coming here.”

Hugh frowned. This was a thing he did not like to think about. The shuttle, drowned in smoke and fallen wire. His friend Geordi, quiet and still on the floor. His fault. Without meaning to he clenched his fist, and the ends of his assimilation tubules pushed against his skin. He brought them back in quickly, before he scared the others. These others who were also his friends. But not like Geordi.

“I did not want Geordi to be hurt,” he said. “He is my _very_ other, and I would not know how to be an individual without him.” He frowned again, facial muscles tugging against all the metal and wiring rooted in them. “But this cannot be the same for Geordi? He is already a full individual. He has always been. Without me he would not be so lost.”

Paris said, “That’s the funny thing about love. Maybe you lived your whole life thinking you were whole, but once you have it, once you’re _in_ it, you can’t remember how you survived before. And you can’t imagine going back. B’Elanna’s _it_. She and Miral are everything. If I were to lose them...”

“You would not know how to be an individual?”

“Yeah,” said Paris in a quiet voice. “Something like that.”

“Then...” And though there were not a billion voices, there were the voices of these other friends, and the realization they helped Hugh come to felt more satisfying because they’d let him do the work. “Then I have this too. Then I am in love with my friend Geordi.”

“Bingo,” said Paris, and tossed his pit in the air.

But Hugh was not satisfied. “What do I _do_ with it?” he asked.

For some reason this question made the lieutenant Paris fumble his Kaylo pit to the floor and the ensign Kim fall back in his chair. Neelix took a handful of pits in either hand.

“Uhhh,” said Kim at last. “Just to clarify, do you mean emotionally, or…?”

“Of course he means emotionally,” said Paris, and threw his pit so that the ensign Kim had to duck. “Geeze, Harry, you oughta get your mind out of the gutter. This is a professional work environment.”

“I’m serious! I mean, Hugh, do you even – uh – that is, can you...do you...uh...”

“Sex,” said Paris. “He means, do you know about sex.”

“I am _Borg_ ,” said Hugh, feeling offended by this question. “Almost all those ever assimilated by the Collective used sexual intercourse in order to procreate new units of their species. There is no need for drones to do this. We do not perform biological reproduction – it is potentially harmful and therefore inefficient.”

“Your loss, but that’s not the only reason for it. There’s also bonding, pleasure...”

“We have assimilated knowledge. It is disruptive and distracting. A cause of disorder.”

“It sure is,” said Paris.

“Geordi _is_ a Human individual,” Hugh conceded. “Would he wish to do this?”

“Well, Hugh, when a man and a Borg ex-drone like each other very, very much—”

The ensign Kim said, “ _Tom_ ,” very loud. Then he said, “Look, you should probably talk to the Doctor about the, uh, mechanics. Ultimately it’s up to you to decide what you’re comfortable with.”

“But we still do not know what to do with Geordi! He is our, he is _my_ friend and I have love for him but what do I do now? This is _not_ comfortable.”

Kim said, “What you do is you go talk to him. Don’t worry about him being mad forever, that’s not how friendships work. Just tell him how important he is to you.”

“I’m sure he’ll listen,” said Neelix. “Right this minute he’s probably worrying that _you’re_ mad at _him_. But even if you were, that doesn’t mean you would want to end the whole friendship.”

“No!” said Hugh. “A friend is very important. ‘Someone who will help you when you are lonely, and make you feel better.’ Geordi said. But our – but my – but the other Borg could be free, and that is also important. They are like me. I cannot choose between them and my friend Geordi.”

Neelix said, “Tell him that. Help him see why this is important. And when you’re ready, you can tell him the rest. I’ve got a bowlful of Kaylo pits here that says he’ll reciprocate those feelings, too.”

“Yeah, and when he does you grab him by the collar and—”

“ _Tom_ ,” said both the ensign Kim and the Talaxian Neelix.

Hugh sat and adapted. _When you are ready_ he was beginning to understand, but _tell him the rest_ was a difficult task. He simply was not good enough at words. But he had learned many things since becoming Hugh, and he thought now that there was an idea but he would need assistance to complete it...

“I should get back to the kitchen before my stew burns,” said Neelix. “Hugh, I hope this was helpful for you.”

“Yes. It was satisfactory.”

“Great! You just let me know when you’re ready for your first date. I’ll have a candlelit dinner waiting!” Neelix winked and left.

Hugh, Kim and Paris sat without speaking. Then the ensign Kim said, “It just hit me. The guy who started off the year a _Borg_ _drone_ is going to find someone to settle down with before I do.”

The lieutenant Paris picked up the bowl of suspect seeds. “Harry,” he said, “take a pit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worried about the back half of this chapter, won't lie. I thought that considering the front half, not to mention the rest of the fic, it would feel atonal and silly and out of place. Then I thought, why the hell am I writing fanfic if not to seize the opportunity to have Tom Eugene Paris give The Talk to a former Borg drone? And so. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy.


	16. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A holographic woman sitting near them turned in her chair and smiled at them. 'Hello,' she said through stuck-together lips. 'This is right.'"

_Chapter Fourteen_

_(in which some come together and some go away)_

Testing the new shield surge system twice over was basic Starfleet protocol. Testing it a third time was the practical caution of an experienced engineer. Testing it a fourth time could be blamed on that engineer’s history on star ships where any insane thing could and often did happen.

Testing it a fifth time was just stalling.

Geordi leaned into the screen banks stretched against one wall in Engineering. He’d set himself up in a corner of the lower level and essentially hadn’t left since the incident by the regeneration alcove. He’d even almost broken the cardinal rule of no eating in Engineering, although guilt ultimately sent him out into the hall. He’d built this new shielding in record time practically from scratch – he couldn’t think of any other ship with so many key systems linked to drain each other’s power surges, at least not in his time – and soon it’d have to go up against the Borg, and he should have been so keyed up with nervous energy that the colors danced on the screens. _Is it enough? Will it work? Am I_ that good _? Is my work worth what I say it is?_ He remembered the last time he’d prepped for a Borg attack, that low-grade curiosity mixed with high-grade unease and mid-grade panic.

But if Geordi was on edge now, it wasn’t in the same way. And his nerves weren’t stretched taut so much as slumped over. He felt like he’d already fought the battle and lost, and the shields were just a front. What they were guarding had already collapsed.

He hit a button and watched readouts of the latest test unspool. Work was good: work kept him busy. He’d thrown worse case scenario after worst case scenario at the computer, core ejection, hull breaches, those godawful Borg tractor beams, and so far the data suggested his modifications would hold. Matched with Seven’s nanaprobes in the gel packs, the shields _looked_ enough to hold off Borg attacks, at least for a little while. And any power surges _looked_ set to funnel into the weapons systems for the added boost. He was as ready as anyone could be, going up against the Borg.

He was hardly even _thinking_ about the Borg. Or rather, he was, and that was the whole problem right there.

When exactly had he begun spending so much time with Hugh? Early on, healing him and running tests? Afterwards, taking him to Ten Forward, finding him something to do? When exactly had his days – busy engineer days, busy Starfleet days, he went days or even weeks without seeing his closest friends sometimes and that was normal, everyone scattered to conferences, duty shifts, away missions, officer exchanges – become so connected to those of a man who didn’t have a name six months ago?

_He might decide his place is with his own people..._

And if he did, what then? Where would Geordi go? His place was in the past, on the Enterprise, but to go back there alone, to lose that echoing voice and those careful eyes and that deep warm feeling, to lose knowing that here was someone who wanted to be near you, who trusted you most of all...

Geordi reset the computer and started another test.

A shadow fell over the display. Lieutenant Torres, watching him. He sighed and sagged back from the computers – _alright, you caught me, I’m hiding like a cadet out past curfew_. Torres was too sharp and knew her systems testing requirements too well to be bluffed.

“You done here?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

“Pretty much,” he answered. “Just...just making sure.”

“I went over the shield mods myself. Your theories are good and so is your math. It’ll work.”

“Yeah,” he said, not bothering to hide his lack of joy. “It’ll work. At least something will.”

“You had to know what you were in for,” Torres said. “Befriending a Borg’s probably about as easy as befriending a Klingon.”

“I am friends with a Klingon.” He hit the nearest console with the heels of his hands. “I don’t know how to tell him that what he wants to do is wrong.”

“Maybe it’s not wrong. Crazy, but not wrong.” Her smile flickered. “He wouldn’t be the first idiot fighting for a hopeless, righteous cause.”

“Then I don’t know how to help him! He might as well stay here in Borg space and...” _And I’ll never see him again,_ he thought. That was the crux of it. Lieutenant Torres was right, Hugh wasn’t wrong at all. His people, his body, his sense of fairness, his sense of self. Those were his traits as an individual, not anything anyone had assimilated into him. He looked for a community and found it and it needed him, and like any good member of Starfleet, he wanted to help. Hugh wasn’t wrong. Geordi was just a coward.

Somehow this realization made him feel better, in a sickly sort of way. He offered Torres a weak smile. “I don’t like getting this emotional around the warp core,” he said. “Need something?”

“The Doctor’s cracked some of those memory engrams. Captain Janeway’s called a meeting, all senior staff.”

“Wonder if he’s got good news.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” she said.

*

When they got to the conference room Geordi took quick stock: Seven was there but not Hugh, for which he was both disappointed and grateful. Seven gave him her usual cool look like they hadn’t squabbled in the hallway. He was grateful for that too.

It had been a lot of long days and you could see that reflected on the officers sitting around the table. Harry Kim was wilting in his chair, Tom Paris was doing a bad job of hiding his yawns, the captain had her coffee in a vessel more pitcher than mug, and though he hadn’t lost his Vulcan calm Tuvok was running tactical data on three separate PADDS at once even while he sat there. Janeway and Chakotay were glancing at each other, that telepathic-conversation thing Geordi had noticed they did so often. He’d checked out of curiosity and discovered the commander was another rebel add-on, but watching him and the captain vibe now it was hard to imagine.

The Doctor, of course, was indefatigable.

“I’m afraid I may have confirmed your suspicions, Captain,” he said. “The data from the drone’s engrams indicate the Borg are working on a massive transport system, capable of ripping through the time-space continuum. The beam that interacted with the Enterprise was simply a low-powered off-shoot of the main project.”

“Low-powered?” Geordi echoed.

“Oh, yes. These engrams suggest the Borg aren’t planning to bring others to them. These relays will be capable of moving dozens, even hundreds of cubes at once, straight to the Alpha Quadrant.”

“They can reach that far?” Chakotay asked.

The Doctor said, “They could probably reach the next galaxy if they wanted.”

Torres said, “From what we’ve seen of their transwarp conduits, they’ve never been able to move entire armies at once. The levels of gravimetric sheer bouncing off the cubes would cause incredible pressure. That many cubes in that tight a space...their own structural integrity fields would clip.”

“It would be like flying into a brick wall,” Paris added.

“Ah, that’s the second piece of the puzzle. The locations of the relays weren’t chosen at random. I had Seven check for me,” the Doctor said, and looked her way.

“The Borg use chroniton fields to facilitate travel, allowing vessels to remain in temporal sync at advanced speeds,” she said. “When accessed as part of a temporal vortex they leave behind the tachyon-partical residue we’ve found here. These fields are artificially made and as such do have limits. But the Collective has located four pockets of natural chroniton particles.”

Janeway said, “Naturally occurring chroniton fields? That’s never even been theorized.”

“Nevertheless, they exist and the Borg have found them,” Seven said. “Their density level is far beyond any the Borg have ever achieved on their own.”

Geordi had stolen an hour to catch up on Voyager’s Borg intel, figuring the Temporal Prime Directive wouldn’t mind; he remembered what he’d read on cube schematics and marveled, “Natural chroniton fields added to the cubes’ own...you could move anything anywhere at any time with that boost.”

“There is one flaw,” Seven said. “The pockets do not appear to be self-sustaining. There are traces of chroniton particles at our current location, no doubt used by the tractor beam, but they have largely been depleted.”

“So it’s a one-time-use situation,” Janeway said.

Chakotay said, “Explains why they haven’t returned here to rebuild. They’ve gotten what they needed and used up the chroniton pocket in the process.”

Paris shook his head. “Some flaw. Does anyone really think they’d need to worry about reinforcements?”

Now Tuvok spoke up, stacking his PADDS together as he did. “I believe the bigger threat here is not the size of the Borg fleet.”

“Oh, no,” Paris muttered, “who’d consider that a threat?”

Geordi squashed his snicker before it could emerge. Captain Janeway, so unlike Captain Picard, shot Paris a look half warning and half laughter. Tuvok continued as if no one had spoken.

“Considering what we know of the Collective’s typical means of deep-space travel, building a standard transwarp conduit and invading Federation space that way would still seem the more logical tactic. Instead they have gone out of their way to develop the ability for easy time travel on a mass scale. The Borg are not known for making unconsidered moves. That we do not understand their reasoning for this is a significant concern.”

Kim’s eyes widened. “Temporal invasion fleet. Just like I said before! They could go back to before anyone had ever heard of the Borg. With what we’ve got now we’ve been able to hold them off, barely, but a hundred years ago? It’d be a massacre.”

“I think that’s part of it,” the Doctor said. “Unfortunately I still haven’t been able to access all of the engrams. Tricky little things in a Borg mind.”

“They brought you two here for a reason,” Commander Chakotay said to Geordi. “Doctor, we need the rest of those engrams decoded.”

Geordi sifted through various queasy thoughts. The Borg, preparing a massive invasion force, possibly one meant for a time before the Federation could have any hope of defending itself. But a force that hinged somehow on Hugh, and maybe himself. He must have gone a little green because Paris said, “How’s it feel to be Mister Popularity?”

“Trade you any day.”

Captain Janeway turned back to the Doctor. “You said the Borg _are_ working on these relays. Any idea when they’ll be done?”

“Not specifically. Either our drone wasn’t sure himself or I haven’t hacked into that data yet. But soon.”

Torres said, “That one station Seven’s probe picked up, with all the Borg activity around it, that’s got to be the hub, the one that powers all the others. When that thing goes online, it’s over.”

“We can try running that Borg blockade and blow it up, but I don’t see what’s stopping them from rebuilding it even if we do,” Paris said. “Unless we camp out here forever, and you can’t say they aren’t dedicated to the cause.”

But Captain Janeway rose from her seat, not cowed in the least, eyes alight with possibilities. She prowled around the table and then swiveled by the viewports to face her crew. “We know this relay hub allows for travel across the galaxy and across time,” she said. “We know it’s a one-shot opportunity. We know the basic theories it’s built on. We know it’s pointed directly at home. I don’t want to destroy this thing. I want to _use_ it.”

Harry Kim looked delighted, the Doctor intrigued. Tom whistled. Seven, Chakotay and Tuvok were more circumspect, but Geordi couldn’t deflate his own sudden hopes, and he could tell from how Torres straightened in her seat that she couldn’t, either.

“It won’t be an easy job,” Captain Janeway said. “We’ll be facing almost unfathomable odds, but...”

“No, Captain, we can do it,” Torres pushed. “Seven, if we could send out more probes, get all the data we can on the schematics – with what you know of Borg tech and whatever’s backed up in the drone’s engrams...” She said to Geordi, “You and I could figure out how it works, and your modified shields could hold off the cubes just long enough to activate it. We could make this _work_.”

She was grinning now and so was he, with the sheer rush of a solid plan. “Yeah, we could,” he said. “Steal their technology out from under them.”

Commander Chakotay said, “I’m still hearing a lot of _coulds_ in there.”

“Hey, Commander, where’s that Maquis flair for risks?” Paris called. Janeway chuckled and waved a hand.

“Chakotay’s right,” she said, “we need every detail triple-checked if this is going to have any hope of succeeding. And, Geordi, I know this doesn’t solve your other problem...”

Torres, still furiously intent on engineering wonders, said, “Maybe there’s a way to split the relay system, activate multiple destinations. If I could just get a good _look_ at the thing.”

Captain Janeway said, “If not, at least you’ll still be back in the Alpha Quadrant, with a whole department of temporal agents waiting. You’ll have all the resources of the Federation behind you.”

“I’ll take it,” Geordi said. “Hugh and I’ll _both_ take it.”

He glanced at Seven after he said it, but she didn’t react, only turned to Torres and began discussing a schedule for more probes. _Fine,_ Geordi thought. _That’s fine. She can have any opinion she wants on the matter, but it’s not her choice to make._

A little deep-down voice too wheedley to ignore reminded him it wasn’t Geordi’s choice, either.

“One more thing,” said Janeway. “Doctor, you’ve removed the engram nodes from the drone, correct? In that case I’d like to handle the burial while we still have time. I reached out to the nearest Malon vessel. They aren’t in a position to take the body from us, but they did send over some information on burial customs. They have a ritual for deceased waste exporters which we can adapt pretty well – apparently it’s not uncommon for the bodies to become too toxic to take back home.”

“Big shock. Hope they appreciate us going to all the trouble,” Torres muttered.

Geordi said, “Hugh will appreciate it either way.”

The captain continued, “I’ll have Neelix put the ceremony together and we’ll hold it this evening. Commander Chakotay and I will be there, and I’m sure Hugh will be as well, but anyone else is welcome. Geordi?”

He nodded. It was respect for the dead and more than that it was respect for Hugh – for who Hugh still believed he was. So Geordi would hide his anxiety and he’d go. Probably wouldn’t be many other attendees, considering. He wondered if Seven would show.

But unexpectedly it was Tom Paris of all people who said to Geordi as the meeting broke up, “See you there, I guess.” He shrugged. “No one should get shot off into space alone. Besides.” A very suspect smile crept over his face. “Hugh and I did some talking. That guy really does make a good case.”

“For ex-Borg solidarity?”

“Uh huh,” said Paris. “Among other things.”

“What other things?”

“Other things,” said Paris.

“ _Tom_ ,” said Harry Kim, and hustled him out of the room. Geordi stared after them, bewildered.

*

It was just one fight and that was hardly a catastrophe – Hugh would probably forget he was angry almost as quickly as he had realized that he was – but his deciding to stay in the Delta Quadrant, to leave Geordi behind…Geordi would have to talk to him about it. Would _have_ to. He wasn’t sure Seven would bring it up if he didn’t but that didn’t matter when she was right: he would have to give Hugh the choice. And when he did every faint fragile hope he had might end up so much irradiated metal, disintegrated on the floor.

He had meant to catch up with Hugh before the funeral service but somehow he ended up back in Engineering, in front of screens. Hell, but it was easier. Geordi knew how to argue with computers and manipulate the math. Keeping a super-powered starship from exploding? Fighting off angry aliens? That was kid stuff. Talking to Hugh? Er. Talk about drawbacks of verbal communication.

“Hey,” said Lieutenant Torres from her station. “You’re gonna be late for the service.”

He looked up, startled and disoriented. Silly thoughts floated by, that he had wanted to put on a dress uniform first, or a polite show of arriving early. Silly when it wasn’t that kind of ship funeral – it was barely a funeral at all, for someone he didn’t know who would sooner try to assimilate him than appreciate the gesture. But Hugh might have appreciated it. Not that Hugh knew anything about dress uniforms.

Geordi shook his head. Nothing for it now but to go and embrace the awkwardness. “Time flies when you’re looking at nacelle schematics,” he sighed. “Hey, are you coming?”

“No,” Torres said. Discomfort flickered briefly in her eyes. “Funerals aren’t exactly my strong suit. And I wouldn’t want random Starfleet do-gooders at mine anyway.” She was joking, more or less. After a beat she added, “I’ll respect his memory from Engineering. Using his engrams to make sure we don’t all end up Borg victims like he did.”

“Makes sense,” he said, because it did. “I hope Hugh gets what he needs out of this.”

“Only one way to find out,” she replied. “You know, I saw him earlier today. Over by the holodeck with Tom.”

“The holodeck? Huh. He never paid it any attention on the Enterprise.”

“Tom probably roped him into something. He’s an expert at using the holodeck to cause problems,” she said with loyal affection.

Geordi thought back to the conference room, the suspect look in Tom Paris’ eye. _Hugh and I did some talking._ About _what_?

Come to think of it, there was something suspect in how Torres was watching him too. Something almost...gleeful? And _gleeful_ was not the first word that usually came to mind in reference to B’Elanna Torres. But she was Paris’ _wife_ , she was probably included in his schemes by default. And just what schemes did Tom Paris have involving Geordi, anyway? If this had been back on the Enterprise, and Commander Riker was looking at him like that, he’d transfer back to Earth.

The queasiness was suddenly much, much worse. In such a state did he go to the funeral.

*

The service, such as it was, had been set up in a small auxiliary equipment bay used to maintain the torpedo tubes. No one had bothered with any decoration (it was a resigned fact of Starfleet life that sometimes you went to funerals, sometimes even your own, and Geordi was used to the typical wads of black bunting and trays of food. The food at his had actually been pretty good), and the sterile rows of computer banks heaped with flashing lights and gear made it a cramped affair. But there was one viewport, looking out at the universe, and the starlight it lent draped across the bulky coffin. Words in presumably a Malon language were carved across the front, and on one end a United Federation of Planets flag had been carefully folded.

“The Starfleet flag didn’t seem quite right,” explained Captain Janeway. “Defense and exploration for a group he never would have known if he hadn’t been assimilated. But the Federation flag, as a token of our respect...I think he could have found a home in the Federation. I think many of them still could.” And her eyes drifted to the door, as Seven and Hugh came through together.

_Federation is the wrong place? For accepting Borg who are free?_

“Yeah,” Geordi said softly. “I hope you’re right.”

Seven stepped to the right of the door and stayed there, arms at her back, but Hugh went over to the coffin, without a look at anyone else. Geordi told himself it was his Borg focus and not a deliberate slight.

Neelix was also by the coffin, padd in hand. The captain had suggested he lead the service (“He’s got a knack for cultural subtleties,” she told Geordi) and he clearly took the role seriously.

“This all looks right, I hope?” he asked Hugh, anxious. “There are traditional Malon rites, and then you could say a few words if you want, and then the captain can send him off.”

“I do not require words,” said Hugh. “I think that this looks right.”

He stayed over by the coffin, and Geordi hung back. Now wasn’t the right time to rehash their argument, or even apologize for it. Now definitely wasn’t the right time to bring up the rest: “Nice funeral, huh? By the way, if you wanted to stay out here and fight to free more Borg instead of coming back with me you could. I’d crawl off and die but whatever you want to do!” Now might have been the right time for comfort, except Hugh didn’t look like he needed any. He stood there impassive and expressionless.

Commander Chakotay came in then, and true to his word Tom Paris followed a second after, his daughter asleep in his arms. “Harry and Tuvok are on duty but they send their regards,” he told Geordi. Then, surprisingly, Naomi Wildman peeked in, holding the hand of her soft-eyed ensign mother, Samantha.

“I really didn’t want to bring her, she’s going to have nightmares,” Ensign Wildman said. “But she insisted...”

“It’s important to say goodbye,” Naomi said, although she kept a tight grip on her mom’s hand. “A Starfleet captain always says goodbye. Right?”

“Right,” said Captain Janeway.

So this was the service: five Starfleet officers, two ex-drones, one cultural ambassador slash moral officer slash chef, and two kids. Neelix cleared his throat. “Guess we should get started,” he said. “I have a traditional Malon ending story here. Don’t worry, it’s short. Apparently you can only stand by a Malon waste engineer’s coffin for so long before you break out into a rash.” He held up his padd, began to read: “ ‘In this coffin lined to protect our bodies we impart yours...’ ”

Geordi listened with his head titled to one side. The coffin was made of unusual metals and radiated red and blue spikes which all but blotted out Neelix. Hugh’s gold lining cut through. Captain Janeway moved over to stand by Commander Chakotay. Next to Geordi Naomi Wildman’s eyes were wide, and Paris bounced his arm in a slow rhythm for Miral.

He could feel Seven boring her laser stare into the back of his neck the whole time. He tried to ignore it.

“ ‘Umck ck Umck,’ this is the tag of the unknown one. To you we say...’ Oh, translation note. That’s how the Malon refer to bodies so disfigured by radiation they can’t be identified.”

Naomi’s eyes went even wider. Hugh said, “This is his name?”

“I, hm. I suppose it is, in a way. What do you think?”

“It is satisfactory.”

Neelix went on with the ritual. Geordi only heard a bit of it. He thought, _How can Hugh care so much about these beings who brutalized him? How can I leave him behind? He hates to be alone._

He thought, _He’s learned about us so quickly, he’s adapted so well. But maybe he’s tired of adapting. I know I would be._

He thought, _Why the hell did I have to fall in love with him? No one warned me about this. ‘Hey, Geordi, a Borg drone just crash-landed on a moon, can you reboot him?’ Yeah, sure, why not. And then I have to fall in love with him!_

And he thought towards the end, _But it’s good that we’re sending Umck ck Umck off with his name and his culture. Hugh was right about that._

Neelix finished his recitation and looked at the captain. She stepped forward, thanked them all for coming, and Hugh for suggesting it. He blinked up at her. She paused a moment, gathering her thoughts, then said: “None of us know the person in this coffin. We don’t know who his family was, who his friends were, what he liked to do for fun. We don’t know how long ago he was taken from those who loved him. But we do know one thing. We know he deserves to be remembered as an individual, with wants and opinions and a name. We know all those who’ve been assimilated deserve that. We are out here as explorers, but we’re also all looking for home. And we hope Umck ck Umck finds his again, just as we hope we find our own.”

She glanced at Hugh, and when he didn’t say anything she nodded at Neelix, who hit a button on his padd. The coffin rose on its track and slotted into one of the torpedo tubes. Neelix hit another button and the tube fired.

They could see the coffin through the viewport, tumbling its way to whatever came next. Naomi waved. “Have a safe trip home,” she said.

The shushing noise behind her was the sound of the doors opening as Seven left.

Ensign Wildman took Naomi out soon after. The rest of them stood around making the requisite post-funeral small talk, even though they were all yawning and half of them had long shifts ahead. Except for Hugh, who was still watching out the viewport. Geordi caught a breath, held it, counted to ten, let it out in a noisy rush. Then he took a step towards his friend.

But he was blocked by Neelix, wanting to know how he’d done, and the thing with ex-Borg was that they weren’t much for small talk. By the time Geordi managed to disengage himself Hugh had gone off to his next assignment.

*

Geordi’s quarters on Voyager still felt like the guest rooms they were rather than his own. The decorations were limited and bland: a potted plant, a glass paperweight on a glass table, a framed picture he couldn’t see well, with no special metals in the paint. It was all a little _off_ , the same way the tricorders were just a little slimmer than they should have been, the way the uniform was just slightly wrong. It wasn’t a large ship, so for him to have his own space meant that someone else was doubling up – standard Starfleet procedure, top officers got their own quarters, but meanwhile Hugh had an alcove in a cargo bay, and would never think to ask for anything different…

Geordi flopped sideways onto his bed and scratched at the skin around his left VISOR port. Then he felt his chin, where there was a bit of stubble just starting to come through. Occasionally he was possessed by the desire for facial hair, though he usually ended up shaving it off two weeks in; now he grinned to imagine reappearing on the Enterprise bridge with a full beard. He wondered if Hugh liked people with beards. He wondered if Hugh had any aesthetic interests whatsoever. He wondered why it mattered, if this was a secret Geordi was taking to the grave.

“I have to talk to him,” he groaned to the ceiling. “I can’t not talk to him. He’s the easiest guy in the galaxy to talk to.”

But he was afraid to talk about Hugh’s future, and he was afraid to talk about what Hugh meant to him, and he was giving himself another headache, and he was going to fall asleep with his uniform and boots on.

“Man do I wish you were here right now, Data,” he sighed. Data always brought such clarity, language malfunctions notwithstanding – he couldn’t look down at you or tell you the white lies you wanted to hear. He wouldn’t laugh at the idea of an ex-drone even possibly...but he would point out all the reasons it was a terrible idea, and then he would accept it either way. Geordi shifted, thinking of these most important people in his life. Data and Hugh. Two outliers. Two genuinely good guys. Neither one had anything to prove to anyone, both had proven themselves a thousand times already, and yet neither one would stop trying.

“Alright, Data,” he said. “Hypothetical situation. You fall for a guy who used to be part of your worst enemy, who may or may not have any idea what _falling for_ even means, and who may want to spent the rest of his life chasing unstoppable nightmares around the opposite end of the universe. Is there any point in thinking about this? Doesn’t it make a lot more sense to slink home with your tail between your legs? Run that info through your processors and let me know what you think. I’m being an idiot, right?”

Then the door chimed and he almost fell off the bed.

He peeked around the door frame into the outer room as if Data could possibly be standing there. The door chimed a second time. “Come in,” he said, and Hugh did.

Geordi gulped. Hugh said, “Hello, Geordi,” and fell quiet. Geordi had spent enough time with him to be able to recognize the facets of all those various Borg silences. This one was almost fidgety.

Geordi took a couple steps deeper into the room, towards Hugh. “I’m glad to see you,” he said.

“You are,” said Hugh, almost a question. “I am also glad.”

“You, ah...you got the access panel figured out! That’s good. And your combadge looks good there. You’ll never have to worry about losing it.”

“Yes. I have adapted it.”

“You’re, you’re good at that. Adapting.”

“I am Borg.”

Geordi scrubbed his hand over his face, then gave a rueful laugh that seemed to catch Hugh by surprise. “If we’re stuck on inane chatter then we’re really in trouble.”

“Inane chatter? Is this like frivolous conversation?”

“Something like that. Hugh, I’m sorry. I know I let you down, with your identity, with that drone – ex-drone. With all of it. I don’t want you to feel like you don’t have my support.”

“Geordi does not want me to be Borg,” Hugh said.

“He doesn’t. He’s never known any Borg like you before. But if you are, then...then you are. And if you think you can rescue your, um, people, then you should try and I want to help, however I can. So...” He hesitated. Pictured himself telling Captain Picard the warp core was breaching, pictured himself being chewed out by Admiral Nechayev over said breach, then realized there was no hypothetical conversation as horrible as this one was about to be and flicked the phaser to kill and fired at himself. “So if that means you want to stay here on Voyager, or in the Delta Quadrant, you should. I could talk to Captain Janeway about it.”

Hugh blinked. “Stay?”

“The Borg are here, right? This is their space. Apparently there are other ex-drones around, and I’m sure they could use your help.”

(Flick, flick, flick. There’d be nothing left of him but grease by the time this was done.)

Hugh still looked confused more than anything. “You would stay also? But the Enterprise is your home.”

“It is. Hugh, I can’t stay. It wouldn’t be right for me. But just because that’s my place, it doesn’t have to be yours, and—”

“My place is with Geordi,” said Hugh, and gave a little one-shoulder shrug. “I will not stay alone.”

“But – but think about this, now,” he said, quashing the rising hope with ruthless aim. “I can’t promise Admiral Nechayev isn’t lying in wait with a whole battalion of Starfleet cyberneticists. I can’t promise the Federation will be what you need it to be – they might never support your ex-Borg theory, and anyway the Borg are _here_...I don’t want you to feel trapped again!” B’Elanna Torres’ face flashed past him. “I’ve dedicated my whole life to the Federation,” he said, “and I believe in it, but not everyone finds a place there. Hugh, this is your _life_ we’re talking about.”

“You are my life,” said Hugh simply. Geordi groaned and sank down onto the couch, dropped his head into his hands.

“I’m not!” he said. “You don’t know what it means when you say that! Even if you come back with me, I’m in Starfleet, I could be reassigned to a deep space station tomorrow. I don’t know what the future would be for you and me. Or if there even _is_ a future. Sometimes friends have to leave.”

“You wish me to stay here?”

“Hell no. But if you stay on Voyager you’d have Seven and Icheb, even in the Alpha Quadrant. I can’t be the selfish shit who keeps you from your people. From what you want.”

“What I want,” Hugh repeated, a distant echo. “I know what I want, Geordi. You have already taught me so often how to choose. Do you not remember?”

“I remember. I do.”

“Yes. And if other Borg could be free, they would want this also. The choice to be with their others. I do know what I mean. I will choose to go with Geordi. I will not stay,” he said, and Geordi fell limp against the backrest of the couch.

Hugh lifted his prosthetic arm, then let it drop. Now it was his turn to look troubled. “But Geordi, I cannot forget the other Borg,” he said. “I cannot forget what it was like to be Third of Five. I do not want this to upset you, but I cannot.”

“I know. It was wrong of me to argue with you over it. Helping them is what you need to do,” Geordi said. “I trust you.”

Hugh ducked his head, an alarmingly charming gesture, but he wouldn’t be distracted or deterred. He was who he was: who he had been in the beginning, who he had been turned into and who he was becoming now. “And the others?” he asked. “Would you trust them?”

“If there are others we can rescue...yeah, sure. Let’s free the Borg. We’ve got, what, you and Seven and Icheb and maybe a couple broken cubes’ worth elsewhere...only a couple billion drones left. No big deal,” he said, slightly sarcastic.

“No big deal,” agreed Hugh, not at all sarcastic. Geordi thought back to their fight in the cargo bay, and all his fears of separation: a bad dream that looked goofy in the morning light. He couldn’t help it. He smiled.

“You are _relentless_. Do you have any idea how hard this is gonna be?”

“One day there will be many drones freed, and we will help each other. Borg are good at hard.”

“True. Guess I’ll need a new job anyway once they kick me out of Starfleet.”

“I did not _say_ for you to disobey a direct order, Geordi.”

“You were in trouble. What are friends for?”

“To be less lonely with their others,” Hugh said.

Geordi winced. Again and again he said these things…but maybe that was what made Geordi forget himself a moment. Hearing Hugh’s voice. He said, “I just…I just want you to know...”

“Know what?”

“...No, it’s nothing,” he said at last. “Getting a little greedy, that’s all.”

He smiled again, so fond. There were things you couldn’t do even with all the technology on the flagship: there were laws of physics that you had to abide by. And there were things with this man in front of him that he couldn’t have. Fond was what he had, what they would have together. Hugh was coming back with him, and Hugh was his good friend. It was more than he had a right to ask for. Fond would be enough.

“You have so much ahead of you. If I fall behind, like back in the cargo bay, give me time and I promise I’ll catch up. You’re a little more advanced than I am, I guess.”

“Advanced?” Hugh was puzzled. “But you are the individual longer. I am still learning. I am not a good Hugh yet, I think.”

“You’re the best one I know. And one day there’ll be a whole free Borg society that has you to thank.”

“That would be acceptable,” said Hugh, and then as an afterthought he added, “And also I have learned that I love you.”

The phaser exploded, or imploded, or merged into a different time-space continuum, or something, Geordi had lost control of the metaphor. His mouth swung open. “You,” he said, got stuck, cleared his throat, tried again, got stuck again, coughed. Hugh waited patiently. “ _You_. Don’t know what you – I mean, of course you do, we’re friends, we’re great friends, we...”

“The lieutenant Tom Paris has explained about relationships,” Hugh said.

“What.”

“Platonic, romantic, familial,” Hugh recited, as if this was a normal thing to recite, as if anything about this conversation could possibly be real. “I understand now that I am not your _best pal_ , however I would wish to be your romantic interest. If this is reciprocated we must inform Neelix so that he will set up a dinner date. If it is not then I will...” His eye darted left to right as he thought back. “Then I will _grin and bear it_. However I would be displeased.”

He looked to Geordi for a response. When Geordi’s only response was a sort of wheezing he prompted, “State your preferred relationship designation.”

Geordi got his lungs going and cried, “Slow down!” He staggered back to his feet. It was Starfleet training of all things he was falling back on now, the training that was meant to keep you thinking fast in the face of universe collapse or bodily mutation or invasion by Q. The rest of him was fizzing uselessly.

“OK,” he said. “Can we back up?”

“I did ask the lieutenant Paris,” said Hugh, sounding a little put out. “Borg do not form inter-drone relationships but I did ask.”

“I know you did. And I’m going to strangle him for it later, but. Just. Here’s – here’s the thing.”

“Geordi does not wish a romantic relationship?”

“No – I mean, you – I mean, _Hugh_. Listen. This is all so new to you, and I’m – concerned – that you’re being told to do things you’re not ready for. There are countless ways to be close to someone, there’s all sorts of cultural baggage and...and like you said, Borg don’t do relationships, and you don’t have to either unless you really wanted to. They can go bad sometimes, you know? If you don’t have a strong sense of who you are it can be easy to lose yourself in one. I would never, ever want you to go along with something you didn’t understand because you thought that’s what I wanted.”

Hugh started to pace but then stopped. “Borg are not unaware,” he said. “There is much data we assimilate that we have no use for, but I have use for it now. I know I am Hugh. I know I was Third of Five. But I do not know who I would be in a romantic relationship with Geordi. A relationship would make me different, yes?”

Geordi managed a nod. His VISOR was picking up energy spikes off the both of them: elevated heart rates and his own shaky hands.

“I wish to _know_ how I would be different with you. And how you would be different with me. And I wish to be near you always. It would be difficult otherwise to be an individual, that is how I know it is love. The lieutenant Paris said.”

“You could get hurt. It could go wrong.”

“I am Borg. I will adapt.”

“I’m _not_ Borg! I could get hurt in this too! I have a _terrible track record_.”

“I will never hurt Geordi.”

“Uh uh, you can’t promise that. That’s the thing about relationships, they take on lives of their own sometimes, you can get so caught up...and there are some things you shouldn’t _have_ to adapt to.”

“Geordi,” said Hugh, “do you wish to be in a romantic relationship?”

Geordi stared at him. At this man wrested from the hive, who had shaped a whole new personhood around a name and the concept of _friends_. This man who had been thrown across the galaxy in an attempt to save his new home. This man who had known so little about individuality and now, it seemed, knew so much. This man who was waiting for an answer. Geordi owed him honesty. If nothing else in the universe he owed him that. _Good answer, Data,_ he prayed.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I guess I do.”

Hugh brightened, nodded and moved toward him. And for him it was just that simple.

Geordi fell back half a step without meaning to (Starfleet training: always keep your angles open) and the seat of the couch brushed the back of his legs. Hugh lifted both arms, biological and machine, and put his hands on his shoulders, but then he hesitated and Geordi quickly realized why. Assimilating knowledge wasn’t the same thing as using it.

“Anything I do you don’t like, tell me,” he said, lifting a hand to touch Hugh’s. “Anything you do I don’t like I’ll tell you. We trust each other. We can make mistakes.”

Hugh nodded again. Geordi could _see_ the _Lieutenant Paris told me how to_ on his tongue but thankfully this time he chose not to say it. The room was dark but he could see Geordi and Geordi could see him, always, always they saw each other. Hugh’s hands were heavy and Geordi felt light as zero-grav. Hardly daring to breath for fear this was a holodeck simulation, a hallucination, a dream, he tilted his head and Hugh leaned in. They—

There was the heavy clack of metal striking metal. Hugh froze, stymied: the edge of his eyepiece had caught the edge of Geordi’s VISOR. Geordi couldn’t help his nervy laugh. “Oh,” he said, “hell, we’re both too cybernetic for this.”

He started to pull away, still chuckling. But Hugh’s hands lifted and then his vision abruptly cut off. He stilled in the darkness, eyes wide, automatically straining for clues to the world around him. “Hey...”

There was a rustle and something cool pushed into his grasp: observant Hugh, knowing how uncomfortable he was without the VISOR, making sure he had it in hand. Curious Hugh, who must now have been studying his eyes, touching one of the connector ports. Geordi was not typically a fan of being treated like a lab experiment but there was nothing distasteful about this moment. He closed his fingers around the metal band, relieved, and let the curious fingers drift. And then Hugh kissed him.

It was not, objectively, a good kiss. Hugh had the interest of an individual but the experience of, well, a Borg ex-drone. He knew what it should _look_ like but not what it should be doing – he stood so tense Geordi could tell even without seeing him, his lips closed and stiff and unnaturally cool to the touch with his tubing brushing Geordi’s cheek. The saving grace was that he was so baffled Geordi didn’t have time for his own usual overthinking ( _someone_ had to help things along here). His hands felt their way around Hugh’s wide waist to pull him closer, and somewhere was the feverish thought that there really wasn’t a need to be this gentle-handed. The man he was maneuvering so carefully was mostly metal and super-strong. But just as quickly he answered himself: the parts of Hugh not metal were fragile and raw and new. And Hugh was still so _tense_ , like he had been in the beginning, lurching around the brig, patting at the force field, trying to hear anyone at all…

That part of Hugh needed the tenderest care. And who back home could ever imagine a Starfleet officer offering it! The last time any of them had touched a Borg drone it would have been as they were being flung across the room.

But back home didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except for this. He kept his grasp slow and soft until some of the starch leeched out of Hugh. Then he raised one to the back of Hugh’s neck, feeling the discordance there, bare flesh and armor plating, and careful not to snag a wire he added pressure to deepen the kiss and a sigh…

Hugh jerked. Ripped himself out of Geordi’s grip and vanished. Geordi’s heart sank so far so fast it hurt.

He rushed to get his VISOR back on, fumbling the metal, dreading what he’d see, miserable flashes of prior dating disasters lighting up his brain – and this disaster would be so much worse than the rest of them! “Hugh,” he said hurriedly, “Remember what I said, if you didn’t like it that’s fine, we don’t have to...”

He squinted through the color rush as the VISOR ranges reached his brain. Sure enough, Hugh was pacing: wide steps, jerky turns. His organic eye was unfocused as he stamped about the room. It didn’t look as though he even remembered Geordi was there.

“Hey!” Geordi darted to get in front of him and cut off his path. “It’s all right, you’re all _right_.”

Hugh said, “We did not know! They did not tell us! There was never any need!”

“Hugh?”

At least he stilled. But his gaze as it raked Geordi’s face was agitated and consumed. He said, “All along the Collective has told us, this is the way to perfection.”

“What is?”

“Assimilation! Being one mind! There is no other way to achieve perfection, they said, we must assimilate all others and all technology until we are whole. Anything else is flawed and irrelevant. We must sacrifice individuality to connect within the Collective. They said that is the way!”

“I don’t understand. Please, take a breath.”

“But they were wrong, Geordi! Connection can be achieved another way, it does not have to hurt. We do not have to hurt others for it.” He was trembling. Geordi clasped his organic shoulder, helpless. “Just now!” he said. “I felt you there. We were – together! I felt you become a part of me. But I did not have to give up my voice, you did not have to give up your thoughts. We could be separate and yet we could be one. We could be perfect _that_ way.”

There was nothing Geordi could say.

“The Borg do not _know_ ,” Hugh groaned. “They do not know it can be this way, togetherness without hurt. Maybe if I told them...”

He looked very uncertain then, and very small. “Geordi, what should I do?” he asked. “So much time lost to flawed ideas. So much the Collective does not know. It will be very difficult to explain.”

“Something Guinan told me once,” Geordi said. “She said when it came to dating I tried too hard. Now there’s a lot the Borg don’t understand, you’re right, about our way of life, about you. And you’re not going to get through to them tomorrow, or in a month, or in ten years. It’s going to be a slow, scary process, and I’m still not convinced it’s even possible, but...your friends are with you. _I’m_ with you. For as long as it takes, as hard as it is. Trust yourself to ease into it. Trust that you’ll keep going, day by day.”

“Like when I began to learn how to be Hugh. Like when I learned I was in love with you.” He tilted his head. “Will it be very hard, to be in love?”

“The hardest thing there is,” said Geordi. “And the greatest.”

*

It could have been hours later, or a year, but actually only a few minutes went by before Hugh broke the silence in that darkened room and said that he wished to show Geordi something. “I was not certain I would have the words,” he said. “I thought this alternative would suffice.”

“What alternative?” Geordi asked, amused. How seriously, how strategically he’d approached this, while Geordi dithered in Engineering!

“I will show you.” Hugh headed for the door. Geordi followed after, a bit discombobulated. After the darkness and the drama the quiet hallway with its Starfleet-issue lighting had a surreality to it. Walking down that hallway following an ex-drone he was now in _a romantic relationship_ with had a surreality. What time was it? When was his next duty shift? _Where_ was his next duty shift? And how and why and what, these were all the questions, but never who. He knew who he was with.

He was expecting to be led to the cargo bay or maybe to the mess hall, but instead Hugh took them to Holodeck 1 and went to the controls to load a program. “I didn’t know you used the holodeck,” Geordi said. Holodecks required a suspension of disbelief that Borg of all kinds were not interested in.

“I don’t,” said Hugh, “but to show is easier than to say. The lieutenant Paris...”

“Helped here too, huh.”

“Yes. He allowed me to adapt his program. However this is not an efficient or productive technology.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Geordi, and followed him in. The doors shut behind them and vanished.

It was the French tavern from the pool tournament, with some adjustments: the pool table and bar were both gone, and the back wall had been deleted so that the room seemed to stretch on into the distance. The ceiling too had been replaced, from tin tile to metal sheets backlit in green. Very cube-like. But the general atmosphere of the room was still more bistro than Borg – art prints on the wall, scent of cigar smoke in the air – and so it wasn’t claustrophobic the way cubes were, despite being crowded with tables up and down the endless length. At each table sat three people, and in front of each person was a glass half-full (the exactness was very Hugh). If you looked closely you could see where corners had been cut; there were four or so models for the holographic customers, repeating at random, and none of them had faces per se, just general shadowed outlines where eyes and mouth should be. They were all unmoving, a party frozen in place.

“I thought you would not ever understand,” Hugh said. They were standing in a little patch of space surrounded by the frozen figures. “I thought I could not explain. But maybe this would help, if you could see. The lieutenant Paris says it is a very _romantic spot._ He said Seven of Nine had a date here.”

“Yeah? Is this a date?” Geordi teased.

Hugh said, “Maybe soon. Not yet. I wanted you to see...it will not be accurate. But it is close.”

“What is?”

He raised his voice. “Begin program.”

It operated on a slight lag, so that the figures around them began moving before they began speaking. None were programmed to do more then turn towards each other or lift and lower their drinks. But there were so many of them that the movement blurred in the distance, especially in that microsecond as Geordi’s VISOR processed. He clasped his hands together and looked around, wondering. And then the sound kicked in.

It was a rush – it was a waterfall’s roar. It was white noise on an operatic scale. None of the holograms was actually saying anything; when he tried to focus on a single thread he could only pick out random words in gibberish order. But the weight of all those stacked voices, mirrored with the computer’s help into the illusion of infinity, was immense. They leaned into each other with mouths that didn’t move and the background murmur of cafe chatter became something grand.

A holographic woman sitting near them turned in her chair – a stiff, Hugh-like turn of the upper body only – and smiled at them. “Hello,” she said through stuck-together lips. “This is right.”

She turned back. Another hologram from deeper in called, “Hello. Welcome.”

And another from across the aisle: “Hello. We see you here.”

And another: “Hello. This is right.”

And another: “Hello. Welcome.”

And another, and another, and on and on…

Geordi took it in – the endless greetings and the meaningless swell of conversation behind them. It should have been sensory overload, and if he tried too hard to understand any of it, it was, but when he gave up and let it come… He looked over at Hugh, who was standing very still, eye closed, a distant expression on his face. In the ocean of voices he seemed almost to swim.

“Hello. Welcome. Hello. We see you here. Hello.”

Geordi breathed, “Is this what it’s like…? In the Collective, when everyone’s all…?”

Hugh’s eye opened. “No,” he said sadly. “It is harder there. Worse. There are only orders. And screams.” He looked at the holograms near them. Again the woman smiled and said hi. “But this is what it could be,” he said. “If it was only good.”

“I can’t imagine living in this and then giving it up. This...unison. No wonder you think our world is too quiet.”

“Yes. I wish I could hear you always. But in your quarters when we – then I did hear you. In a different way.” He said it with awe.

“Hugh...when we first rescued you, the first time we spoke, what were you thinking?”

“The first time?”

“You remember?”

“Yes. You asked me my name.” Hugh thought. All the stiffness of the past hour had fallen away under the gentle onslaught of voices. It must have been easier for him here, where even when they were silent there were voices to buoy them up. “I was thinking I must go back to the Collective. _We_ must go back, I thought.” He smiled shyly. “I was thinking we must assimilate you.” Geordi laughed. “I was thinking...I was thinking it was very strange there. So empty. So alone. No Collective to give me my function. Only Geordi, and the lieutenant Worf. They did _not_ act like proper drones.”

“I’ll let Worf know.”

“You gave us the energy converter, and I was confused. You said, ‘I am just a nice guy.’ It was irrelevant. But it was a voice. I was...I was happy to hear a voice. Even though then I did not know what happiness was. That was the first time I had it. What were you thinking, Geordi?”

“Let’s see. ‘I really hope this guy doesn’t try to assimilate me,’ and, ‘That eyepiece actually is kind of cool,’ and, ‘I _really_ hope this guy doesn’t try to assimilate me.’ Oh. And, ‘Wow, he’s not scary at all close up. He just looks like he got lost and needs a ride home.’”

Their conversation fell into the chatter of the holograms around them. It swirled together, filled the room. Hello. This is right. Welcome. Hello.

“We could recreate this program on the Enterprise,” Geordi suggested. He reached out, ran a gentle finger just under Hugh’s collarbone. “Voyager’s emitters are a little more refined but I could rig something up if you wanted.”

“Could you?”

“Sure. Everyone needs a place to let off steam. This could be yours.”

Hugh said, “This is right,” and the holograms said it too.

Then his eyepiece flashed once, a single bolt of red. Geordi knew that was a recharge warning sign. “Been putting off regeneration?” he asked.

“So much to do! To create this program, and talk to Geordi, and begin romance with Geordi, and also to investigate the Borg relay system and inform the captain Janeway of the probe telemetry, and—”

“And now that’s all done,” Geordi finished for him, “so you better go regenerate before you keel over.”

“Keel over?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to do it. C’mon, I’ll walk you to the cargo bay. Computer, arch.”

It cut incongruously into the cafe behind them. Just as they approached it, Hugh slowed. Even here in his perfect Collective words were still a little slow to come. But he never stopped wrestling them into place, with all his stubborn focus. “Geordi, will we still...can we have a romantic relationship, _and_ friends? Can we be both?”

“Both and more,” Geordi promised. “I’ll never stop being your friend, no matter what happens.”

Hugh beamed. “Acceptable,” he said. Geordi smiled back, but his was interrupted by an ill-timed yawn. Romance was exhausting when you’d been pulling straight double shifts. Of course Hugh noticed.

“Geordi must also regenerate before he keels over,” he ordered.

“I will once I drop you off.”

“That is not an efficient route. We will both regenerate separately. And then we will...we will...”

“Have dinner? I know you’re not much for food, but I do owe you that Samarian Sunset. Might have to be a working dinner, though. I’ve still got a surge grid to fine-tune.”

“Acceptable,” Hugh said again. And it was. It really, really was.

*

Much later, they would piece together what had happened from sensor data, video logs and vocal recordings. Geordi watched the combined display until it danced in front of him even when the screen went dark. He saw each step, each breath in turn. What he saw:

Hugh returned to the cargo bay, found it empty. He stepped into the alcove he’d claimed as his own, faced out into the room, shut his eye and was still. The sensors logged another entry into the room ten point eight minutes later.

The aliens Xaw and Xor came in, the latter lagging behind. Both wore their scanners on their arms. Xaw hit a few buttons on the computer terminal and nudged some of the storage bins. Then he went up the stairs on light feet and took a close, long look, holding his scanner up high. He didn’t realize one of the computer displays he’d touched had activated a recording scan. Geordi would find this entire conversation later, labeled as a guest personal log.

“Well so!” Xaw said in the recording. “I told you it would be here. What else could drain such levels of energy but Borg regeneration?”

Xor hung back, burbling nervously. “Why don’t we stick to the original plan? You said Seven of Nine would be the one.”

Xaw slapped his wide palms together in a Xet dismissive gesture. “You’ve seen for yourself! They’ve taken all the implants out! Hardly anything to sell off that one.”

“But when you realized it was the Voyager you said…”

“Yes, yes, but how could I know they’d have this on board? No rumor of it.” He tapped a finger on Hugh’s chest, a greasy mirror of Geordi’s touch leaving one damp print. “A complete drone, with all its original technology, trackers already pruned. What the War Department will pay for it!”

Xor fretted, “We didn’t set up containment for a full drone. Our ship is not the Voyager. What if it escapes?”

“Hnn. You think I don’t know what you are doing?” said Xet. His companion broke into an extended, burbled denial but he raised his voice and spoke over. “You want to stay longer on this cushy cruiser and eat more of the Talaxian’s _vqua_ _tsh._ Well so, we sell this drone and you can buy _vqua tsh_ by the vat-full back home.”

“He makes it well here,” Xor muttered. “Not too dry.”

“Hush up! Remember who is first chair. Now. Go look at that wall panel over there, find a way to deactivate the alcove without waking the drone.”

Xor went, but his voice dripped unhappily as he considered the mash of Borg and Federation coding. “They have been good to us on this ship.”

Xaw, busy with his scanner, didn’t so much as look up. “They aren’t from here. They don’t understand our lives,” he said, dismissively. “Think! We risk our lives every day for _shreds_ of this technology. Voyager wants to treat the _Borg_ with respect, meanwhile no one helps our people. Well so? Who is more worthy?”

“They did try to help us. They’re giving us all this debris.”

“They’re giving us trash. Enough! Disconnect this drone and we’ll beam off. We’ll be gone hours before they notice.”

Xor bobbed his scaled head and turned back to the control panel. Finally he said, “If we separate it from its alcove it will wake up. I can see no other way.”

“Fine. You still have the dry rotting?”

What Geordi saw in the recording: From a little drawer within his scanner box Xor produced a thin syringe in which a black liquid sloshed. He tossed it to Xaw but warned, “We don’t know how long it will work on a complete drone.”

“Doesn’t need to be long. Only needs to be _fast_. Cut the connection.”

Xor pressed a button. The computer announced, “Regeneration cycle incomplete.” The alcove lights dimmed and Hugh stirred, saw Xaw hovering barely an inch from his face and tilted his head. “You do not have permission to access this place,” he said.

Xaw said, “Quickly, before it moves.”

Watching later it would be difficult but not impossible for Geordi to spot the anger on Hugh’s face. He said sharply, “I am not _it_. My name is Hugh—” and then Xaw swung at him.

He caught the alien’s arm one-handed and tightened his prosthetic grip. Xaw swung again with his free hand. Hugh caught that in his other hand, just as easy, and Xaw dropped the syringe. Hugh took a step out of the alcove, pushing the other back a step. What Geordi saw:

Xor ran faster than his legs looked capable of, across the room and up the steps. In the second it took Hugh to let Xaw go, Xor scooped up the syringe and pricked him in the neck, just above the lip of the exoplating.

Hugh fell hard, all at once. Xaw stepped over and around him, burbling his distaste.

Xor said, “Hurry! It’s probably already starting to adapt to the drug.”

Xaw grabbed Hugh by the prosthetic, which dangled limp in his hand. His companion hit a button on his scanner – a button which Tuvok would discern both activated and scrambled a transporter signal so that Voyager’s scanners failed to pick it up. There was a purple evaporating haze.

After some time, the computer asked, “Continue personal log?” But there was no answer. The three of them were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugh, leaving note in Borg Cube Suggestion Box: What if instead of assimilating others we all make out with Geordi instead?  
> Hugh, leaving another note in Borg Cube Suggestion Box ten seconds later: But you have to find your own Geordi this one's mine.
> 
> I'm not sure the slow burn tag is totally accurate when our heroes are making out yet we have so far left to go in this story - couldn't keep these two off each other any longer without it feeling tortured, xBs are not known for their dithering! - but we ARE at the 90,000 word mark. Call it slow burn And Then. 
> 
> If you are especially pained by cliffhangers I have good news, and by good news I mean terrible news: I have reached the end of my buffer so from here on chapters will face extended delays. Allows readers to really savor the whiplash, I say. Love me some whiplash.


End file.
